


A Progression Through Fear: Flight

by SilusLocke, x57



Series: A Progression Through Fear [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reichenbach, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bloodplay, Dark, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, References to Underage Sex, Sadism, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Ideation, dark!Sherlock, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 220,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilusLocke/pseuds/SilusLocke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/x57/pseuds/x57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty has been obsessed with Sherlock ever since the Carl Powers case, before the stunningly intelligent boy was swallowed up first by his family and then by a world of drugs and disillusionment.... This is the aftermath of an alternate Reichenbach. Sherlock is forced into a situation that might soon become all too comfortable. </p><p>(You might not have to read the first part of the story to pick up here if you are so inclined. See inside for further notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of our canon divergent Reichenbach. It picks up directly after the events of the first part. Readers who are particularly interested in Moriarty, Sherlock, and Moran might be able to pick up here and infer the previous events of this story since it is somewhat similar to the BBC's setup. We'll leave the decision up to you. 
> 
> This is also, finally, the part where those delightful tags come in.

The larger hands were back, struggling to free Sherlock's limbs of his heavy coat and pack, an awkward task with Moriarty curled at Sherlock’s side and Sherlock lying on the rocks like dead weight. Once Sherlock was free of his outer layers, he was wrapped quickly in a thick blanket and bundled up in strong arms. They were on the move again. Slim fingers caressed his hair and face as his head lolled back and forth.

Sherlock hovered on the edge of consciousness, jolted back into awareness every so often as the man carrying him put too much pressure on bruised flesh. He remembered the fall into the water and the sharp pain at his back and wondered vaguely how much bruising there would be if he survived this. He'd have to take notes for future reference.

The thought struck him as hysterically funny for some reason and he giggled under his breath.

A warm puff of air at his temple told him that someone else was laughing along with him.

Minutes later, maybe more, they were someplace warm, an enclosed environment. A vehicle of some sort, the rocking motion couldn't be mistaken. The change in the air temperature alone would not warm Sherlock's body. Moriarty must have been well aware of this, because Sherlock was unwrapped from the blanket and his clothes were peeled off piece by piece. A warm, dry body pressed up to him as this was done. Arms in soft fabric radiating heat wrapped around his bare chest until dry clothes, soft to the touch, could replace his frozen wet ones.

Moriarty seemed reluctant to let go, but eventually Sherlock was encased in a cocoon of fabric.

Sherlock was also reluctant to be separated from the warmth, instinctually clinging until he was pried loose. A sound of loss escaped his throat in a whimper and he burrowed into the layers that had been wrapped around him, trying to soak up and retain all the heat he could. His bones felt like they'd turned to ice, chilling him from the inside even though his surroundings had improved.

The arms were back around him as soon as the blankets were settled around his shoulders. They stayed that way for some time, until he was moved again. Briefly they passed through cool air and back into a heated environment.

He was able to recline back on what must have been leather seats or a sofa. A warm body settled behind him, taking his weight in its lap. His hair was dried. Warm air and the soft hum of a heater was set beside him.

A loud, thrumming engine started beneath them and they were moving again, gaining speed very quickly.

Sherlock was slowly regaining clarity as the danger of hypothermia faded and his body regained warmth. He still shivered now and again, but it was only the jitters of residual shock.

He opened his eyes and peered around the edges of the blanket. They were in a small jet, obviously modern but of undetermined make. The smaller presence had stayed close - not the same person who had pulled him from the river. Sherlock was assuming it was Moriarty, but he couldn't know for certain until he had clear visual confirmation.

"Hmm, you going to stay awake this time?" a soft voice whispered behind him. It was Moriarty. His fingers were warm as they stroked through Sherlock's hair. Jim was in a position with easy access. The motion was an almost thoughtless caress.

They were in the air now. The engines were quieter. The subtle sway of the plane indicated they'd reach maximum altitude.

"I'm awake now." Much as he wished otherwise at the moment. Moriarty's caring gestures were causing a cognitive dissonance, as far removed from the earlier vicious manipulation and killings as they could be. Everyone would assume that he was dead. It would cripple John and Mycroft, at the very least. Mrs. Hudson would grieve, he knew, and Lestrade... Well, he hadn't expected the look in the DI's eyes when he'd stepped onto the ledge.

"That was a gamble, between the drop and the cold and the risk of drowning."

"I'm a gambling kind of man. You ought to know that by now." Moriarty was smiling, Sherlock knew it even if he couldn't see it. "Did you really think you would die?"

"There was always a possibility. Complete safety is an illusion." Sherlock was hovering somewhere between grief and numbness, anger creeping up behind. "What happens now?"

"You're dead. It's time to start anew." The hand in Sherlock's hair ceased its caress and Moriarty's arms wrapped loosely around Sherlock's shoulders. The limbs were wrapped in the fittings of a finely tailored suit, except for the traces of gravel and wetness on one side. Jim had lain on the shore with Sherlock. He'd ruined his clothes.

"I'd say I feel it, but I imagine it would hurt less." Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was beginning to feel every bit of the abuse he'd endured. "So much trouble just to have me as a toy. I expect the boy is gone now?"

Jim's head moved to the side, he must have been peering down at Sherlock. Curiosity, perhaps.

"The boy you’re referring to is back in London," Moriarty confirmed. "But I wonder if you've really grown up all that much?" He was smiling again, it could be heard in his words. He bent and rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.

"According my brother, no. But I didn't have much of a childhood either."

Sherlock was almost holding his breath. This was the closest the other man had ever gotten before - close enough that when Sherlock turned his head, he could see every small variation of brown in eyes so dark they appeared black from a distance. Another spike of adrenaline shot through him as he stared back in fascination. _This_ was one of the many reasons detective work had held such appeal for him; the puzzle of the crime scene was complimented by the riddles of human psychology. Those who populated the fringes were remarkably interesting and also... beautiful, in a very particular sort of way.

Jim's eyes caught him watching. Side by side, angled in just enough to study the other, those brown eyes studied Sherlock back. They were cataloguing one another now, just the eyes. Only when hit by the sun did Jim's hold traces of a lighter brown, even a hint of green, colors that were never revealed until penetrated by direct light. Sherlock's cool grey turned bluer in the rays shining through the windows of the plane. His lashes were long and dark, each individually separated like they’d been brushed apart perfectly.

This intense study was an instinct they shared. Neither could help it. Usually their subjects weren't so willing to sit still for it either. It seemed natural that they should do this. It was another form of 'hello' between them.

This suited Jim better, if Sherlock was really seeing what was under all the previous affectations. The manic, melodramatic cheer and enthusiasm of Richard was gone, as were the lines it caused and the way it had shuttered the deeper emotions behind his eyes. Sherlock might as well have been brushing fingers over the most surface level of the man's mind, only to find answering fingers lace through his and return the touch. He was used to this from Mycroft, but this was far different than the connection he and his brother shared when reading each other. There was a dark undercurrent to this.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under the blanket. With Jim this close and so willing to let himself be examined, Sherlock's first impulse was to touch his face and turn it so he could see all the angles.

Jim's arms slackened, falling to Sherlock's sides to loosen the blanket around him. The detective's skin was still too cold. His body temperature was only just regaining a healthy point. But, Moriarty saw the intention to move and he would not deny it to Sherlock. The criminal was careful with Sherlock's wounded back, the rubber bullet having caught him at the edge of his shoulder blade.

Sherlock ignored his muscles' protestations and seized the opportunity without thinking. His hands drifted up to frame Jim's face, turning his head as he continued his examination from different perspectives. There was little risk now, after all, no facades to maintain.

The skin was softer than expected, the lines more delicate, and a faint shadow under the eyes that spoke to greater stress than the man was admitting to. "You were worried."

A soft gasp parted Jim's lips; clearly he approved of the touch, but he made no other reaction to either encourage nor hinder the exploration.

"I was," he admitted. The bones of his jaw moved against Sherlock's fingers, the bob of his adam's apple brushing Sherlock's thumb where it rested on his neck. Moriarty was living skin under Sherlock's hands. His mind was buried somewhere beneath that bone and flesh, a mind that had done this to Sherlock. And then fretted over him.

Sherlock remembered then; his pale eyes shuttered and his hands withdrew with his core. He tucked himself back into the blanket and turned his head, not wanting to meet the man's eyes anymore.

The first wave of loss finally hit him and he shut his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain. He wasn't going to give Jim the satisfaction of seeing just how much he'd managed to hurt him.

Jim's head slowly fell, long moments after Sherlock's hands had retracted. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling against Sherlock's shoulders.

"Your wounds will heal," Jim said softly. He did not attempt to touch Sherlock any more than they already were, but he made no move to disturb their comfortable position either. Instead, his hands remained neutrally over top of the blanket at Sherlock's sides.

"You'll forgive me if I'm not feeling particularly grateful or comforted, given the fact that you inflicted them," Sherlock grated. Things felt as unsteady as they had been when his Father had died, or when he'd dropped out of university in a spiteful fit of boredom and defiance. The supports of reality had been forcefully yanked out, and the world had reoriented in a dizzying tumble. He felt buried in the ruins and skeptical that this new life would be anything but a short period as a trophy. If he didn't escape, Moriarty would get bored when his fantasy version of Sherlock didn't match up with the reality, with a violent end being the likely conclusion to his existence.

"I did," Jim admitted this as well, "but we are more than our wounds."

Moriarty's heart beat solidly against Sherlock's back. It was steady, not quick, the drumbeat of Sherlock's march into the great unknown. The hands at Sherlock's sides remained motionless, but Moriarty's chin landed softly atop his shoulder once again. Jim rested his head there, watching the clouds go by out their window.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Pursuing certain lines of thought wouldn't help him now. He had to _think_. The heartbeat behind him was distracting - doubly so since the last person he'd held this close had been-

"...where are we going?" Sherlock finally asked.

"New York!" Jim replied in a suddenly cheerful manner. "A nice change from London, don't you think? It'll suit you. And I have business there." Jim tilted his head, resting it against the crook of Sherlock's neck. The corner of his smile tickled Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock tensed, trying not to squirm and let on how much it actually tickled. "You spent so much time focusing your attention on Britain I was beginning to wonder whether you were neglecting the rest of your network."

It was an educated guess. A man like James Moriarty, with the means that he seemed to have at his disposal, wouldn't just settle for a tiny handful of murder games every now and again to supplement the life of his cover persona. London had been a progression of events with an end goal. Moriarty believed he'd achieved his aim, and perhaps he had. _Now_ was when things would get interesting, at least from the perspective of getting a personal look at how the man operated. Sherlock was getting forcibly dragged along on a backstage tour.

As it seemed, Jim's smile only widened. "It was worth it." That was all he would say for the moment. Jim could bend time when he needed to, and he had needed to in order to take on Richard Brook. Brook had to have been a near full time persona, which meant Jim would have either been MIA from business or that he had been able to work remotely. The latter was the more likely.

"Have you ever been ice skating?" Moriarty then asked in a complete non sequitur. "I would really like to take you to Rockefeller Center. Should be just cold enough."

That was an interesting question; it implied that Jim's knowledge of his past wasn't as comprehensive as he liked to imply it was. "I have, several times. I'm surprised you'd want to let me near a pair of blades so soon, but I won't turn down the offer." Sherlock smiled, the edges cold and brittle. "You just might regret it."

"Sherlock," Jim chided, his voice soft, affectionate even. "Have you forgotten already that I'm a gambling man? I'm willing to take a chance." He exhaled softly against Sherlock's neck, then added. "I might even like it."

" _Ah_ ," Sherlock breathed. Another small confirmation, another piece of data to file away. He'd had his suspicions, of course, but it was always better to have facts than to make assumptions. His neck tickled again as another breath washed over his skin; Jim was still so close, too close for comfort, hovering around him like an aura. "Convenient, because I might like to try."

Bravado, all of it. He wasn't completely unaware of the spectrum of human sexuality, but so much of it had seemed... unimportant. A distraction, an unnecessary risk, too much effort with mediocre minds for what appeared to be little payoff. There were quicker ways to wring pleasure from life, ways that seemed to last longer and didn't require one to play nice with others. Sherlock had retained what information had seemed useful for solving passion crimes and discarded the rest as useless trivia.

The chest behind Sherlock shook with contained laughter. "You don't have to be brave to please me, love. I can _feel_ how tense you are." Moriarty let that linger for a moment. "But if you'd rather make an attempt on my life, well, then ice skates would be the way to go, now wouldn't they?"

Jim was like a tango, one step forward, one step back. He advanced and retreated, testing Sherlock's boundaries.

"It wouldn't be cliche, but it's not very stylish, now is it?" This dance was familiar, the thrust and parry of wits and words, but their current position still made Sherlock feel like a child. A _helpless_ child. It wasn't a feeling he was very fond of. "If you had to choose, what would be your preference?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," then Moriarty paused thoughtfully, "but I'll make you a promise: I'll tell you someday." Something in their dance missed a beat and their rhythm faltered. Jim was too serious. He took a moment to let it pass. "I would ask the same of you, but I've already kind of decided that for you, haven't I?"

"First round, anyways. I'm still breathing, so that leaves room for choice." Sherlock let his attention be diverted for a moment, giving the question serious consideration.

"...I suppose I always expected that my work would end my life, but I wanted something _novel_. To be completely surprised, to have all the evidence supporting my conclusion and stand before the suspect I _knew_ to be the right person, only for the real criminal to sneak up behind me and... not be so bloody predictable. Even the interesting cases were fairly straightforward once I puzzled them out."

It occurred to Sherlock that, in a way, he had almost gotten that wish. He hadn't accurately predicted the latest course of events.

Jim's chin dug into his shoulder in a nod. Sherlock was bored of being the best. "Orgasmic stratagems," he said simply.

It was a moment before Moriarty spoke again. "Life and all it has to offer in any regularity can be exceedingly dull. You make the same repetitive motions over and over and over…because that's aaaall you have to work with…" his syllables began to elongate in a musical quality, but his tone was flat. "No one can compare. The law is the worst, you know. When you lay it all out for them in one big, beautiful pattern…game, set, match…no one ever steps back to see the whole of what you've created. Such a tragedy, really. And you've depended on those people for so long."

"I don't understand how people stand it." Sherlock never had been able to fathom it, other than the idea that perhaps it was simply a matter of their minds not functioning properly, stripped of the double-edged components that caused brilliance and hellish boredom. Or perhaps the various trappings of society that they glutted themselves on were simply different, weaker substitutes for the drugs he'd indulged in - lesser medicine for a less serious disease. "So many of them don't see, don't live at all really. Space-filling units that occasionally move and consume resources, wearing their entire life and all of their thoughts on their sleeves."

"Living on the surface of things is not living. And if aaaaall the world lives there while we are submerged beneath the iceberg of knowledge, then why endure it at all?" Jim asked as though it had been a question he'd considered seriously himself. "I could change the world, yet I was unable to make anyone grasp that change to its fullest extent. And you…you could drown yourself in a wealth of deduction, philosophy, learning, but all the while the world goes by outside the door of your little flat without a care. The boredom comes from futility. Futility comes from impotency."

"I never much cared about changing the world. I would have preferred people learn to actually use their brains, but it wasn't required. Just disappointing." Sherlock paused, shifting as Jim's breath tickled over his neck again. "The end result never mattered. The challenge did. The _newness_. Most of society is mind-numbingly predictable but there are always a few with a mix of creativity and just enough cleverness to push the boundaries a little."

"Ahhh, now you're getting somewhere," Jim's voice was real again because this was about them. "And if it weren't for those few, rare souls…" and Moriarty's eyes turned on Sherlock, "the unknown that lies beyond living would be far preferable indeed." He gave a quick smile and then moved his gaze back to the window.

They were well over the Atlantic now. There would be no heading back. 

Sherlock lost interest as Jim's eyes turned away and the conversation died. The man wasn't going to kill him anytime soon, and he was in no position to do anything at the moment.

Sherlock turned over and let himself drift towards sleep.

Roughly seven hours later, Jim was shaking him awake. "Landing in 30 minutes," he said when Sherlock's eyelids opened. "Time to wake up, sleepyhead." He was standing over Sherlock now, having left his spot behind the injured detective somewhere during the flight to change clothes. This time he wore a slim black suit with an open collared white shirt beneath. Casual, for Moriarty's tastes.

Sherlock blinked vacantly at him, his gaze sharpening as his mind fired back up. His eyes wandered despite himself; he had a taste for fine clothes and the outfit did flattering things to the man, no matter what Sherlock's personal feelings towards him happened to be.

"I'm guessing you brought clothing for me. I didn't exactly pack for a trip and I can't imagine you want me to wander New York in pyjamas." Sherlock wondered briefly what had happened to his bag. Most likely it was lost in the Thames, his stolen memento of John still tucked inside.

Moriarty grinned with a gleam in his eye just as the plane's door behind him opened and a blond head poked through. The man who owned it was not only tall, he was _big_. His figure was revealed when he opened the door fully upon seeing Sherlock awake and he and Moriarty conversing. He would have naturally been slim, but it was apparent from the muscles over his chest and arms that he had worked very hard to be otherwise. His face was angular, of Scandinavian descent, but was marred by deep scars. Some trailed beneath his collar.

"Sir," he said, addressing Moriarty. The word was a statement, but it's meaning was a question.

"Moran, get Sherlock's clothes," Moriarty said simply.

Given the calluses, the scars, the stance showing military training... this was the gunman that had taken down the string of officers for Moriarty. And from the look of his build, also the one with the strength to extract him from the river against the current. He clearly overpowered everyone in the room from sheer mass and muscle, but that wasn't the only way to take down an enemy.

Sherlock watched him disappear back through the door to fetch his clothes. "I see you found yourself a military man, as well. They're quite handy."

Moriarty let out a sharp laugh. "Quite. Did you hear that, Seb?" he called around the corner of the door.

'Seb' returned a moment later with a small pile of black silk fabric in his hands. He neither acknowledged, nor ignored Jim's clearly rhetorical question.

"Would you like to be my live-in?" Moriarty asked with a curl of his lip and a peculiar heightening of his brows that made him look absolutely insane. That comment was meant to cut, and it had done its job judging from the ever so subtle flinch at the corners of Moran's eyes. No one but Sherlock, and perhaps Moriarty, would have seen it. Unfortunately, they were the only two in the room. Jim looked very pointedly at Moran and then made a shooing motion with his hands. The man huffed and backed out of the room, giving Sherlock space.

Sherlock levered himself upright and padded over to the table where Seb had set the clothing, still clutching the blanket around himself with one hand. A quick investigation revealed black trousers that looked like they'd been tailored to fit. A matching silk shirt laid beside it. Sherlock didn't doubt that it would cling to his outlines just as much as the trousers.

He glanced up to find Jim watching him. "...so that's how it is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Jim shrugged with a smile. Still, he wasn't going anywhere. "When you're well, you can pick out clothes for yourself. In the meantime, I thought I'd oblige." The jovial tone dropped as quickly as it came and Jim stepped closer. "And, I want to take a look at your back."

Sherlock huffed out a breath and dropped the blanket. He'd comply for the moment. It wasn't like he was particularly modest - John had seen him in varying states of undress, as had Mrs. Hudson, much to her flustered shock. It was different because Jim was plainly interested in more than just viewing, and at some point he intended to get what he wanted. That much was obvious, and it made Sherlock want to dig his heels in every chance he got.

The pyjama top was swiftly unbuttoned and joined the blanket on the floor.

Jim walked slowly up behind Sherlock and inspected the damage. The focal point of the wound was positioned at the innermost part of his shoulder blade. One of Jim's hands rested over the topmost thoracic vertebrae and trailed lower, edging the purple formation of a bruise. It would spread larger. Sherlock's whole left shoulder blade would turn colors in a few days. Other than that, relatively little lasting damage had been done. Jim couldn't help one more touch, his nimble fingers ghosting over the point of impact. The rubber bullet had lodged itself in Sherlock's skin when he was hit, but it had fallen away in the river. The surface of his skin was barely broken.

Sherlock stood still during the examination, refusing to flinch when fingertips softly brushed over tender skin. "Satisfied?"

Sherlock let his pyjama bottoms drop to the floor as soon as Jim's fingers left his back. He immediately snatched up the black trousers and began tugging them on.

" _Very_." Satisfaction dripped from Moriarty's tone, and whether he was referring to Sherlock's back or to the rest of the show was left ambiguous. He dropped into one leather chair and watched Sherlock continue. Hurried as his pace was, Jim could see the fatigue in the stiffness of his limbs and his body's denial of its full range of motion. It would take time before Sherlock's aches left him, but he seemed to be determined not to show it.

It was no matter. Jim was content to enjoy what he could.

Sherlock dressed with as much efficiency as he could muster. The trousers weren't a problem, but he quickly found that he wasn't as recovered as he'd thought when he got to fastening his shirt. The buttons were small and fine, and Sherlock's fingers trembled and slipped. He inhaled slowly, nose wrinkled in annoyance as he contemplated his still-bare chest and the loose fabric at his wrists.

"...I require your assistance," he rasped irritably.

Jim looked positively delighted. In one bound he was in front of Sherlock, grinning up at him. There was not a hint of mockery in Jim's smile, only pure and simple adoration. His quick hands found Sherlock's buttons, starting from the bottom and working their way up. He seemed to have no trouble doing this task backwards. When he reached the top, he left two undone and glanced up coyly through dark lashes to meet Sherlock's eyes. He was standing too close for this to be natural. One by one, he snagged Sherlock's wrists and pulled them to himself, fastening the cuffs comfortably against the detective's skin.

Jim leaned up on his toes. "You're most welcome," he said.

A knock came from their door. "Landing in ten," Moran called from the other side. 

Sherlock stood perfectly still, barely breathing as he stared down at Jim. For all that Jim was quite a bit shorter, he projected a sense of power that made him seem to take up much more space than he actually did. The look he was giving Sherlock only added to the effect, making him somewhat hypnotic to observe.

One of Sherlock's feet stepped backward, trying to put a bit of distance between them, and still Jim's hands held onto his cuffs.

Jim smirked. "Best we sit down. Safety first."

Finally, with a little swing, Moriarty let Sherlock's arms free. He dropped into the chair he'd vacated, but neglected to put on the safety belt. Instead he looked out the window.

"You know there's one thing I don't think I'll ever get tired of. Looking down at the world," Jim said. They were lower in the air now and New York City was rapidly approaching. NYC was a magnificent city from many other vantage points, but there was none quite like the view from above. It was breathtaking at this distance.

Here with the time difference and the eight hour flight, the late afternoon was already fading. The sun was beginning its descent in the sky, and they had to look into it, squint just below its long rays to see the vast city shining below. Steel buildings were washed in the golden gleam. 

Sherlock matched his gaze for a long moment, staring down at the glittering modern lines of the city's sprawl below them. It seemed familiar and alien all at once - a dense urban environment that held suggestions of home, but utterly foreign, without the familiar landmarks and street names, even the normal buildings towering far higher than what was standard for Britain.

Sherlock took a seat, picking the spot furthest away from Jim. "I didn't know you had a fondness for heights."

Jim's teeth gleamed white in the sunlight. His head rolled around to glance at Sherlock, smiling. "It's thrilling, don't you think?"

They were lowering quickly now, the land rushing toward them and the shining ocean beneath them fading away fast. The plane rocked as it touched down, then smoothed out into an easy landing. It was all over shortly, and they were rolling along the ground past the commercial planes.

Jim unbuckled and was out of his seat again before they'd even slowed. He'd apparently had enough of the experience. 

"You're welcome to the bridge next time, then," Sherlock responded. He unlatched his own safety belt and stood once the plane came to a stop.

As resentful as he still was, Sherlock couldn't suppress a bit of curiosity about what was to come. He was going to get a backstage look at Moriarty's network, see what the man actually did before he narrowed his focus on obtaining Sherlock. It was the difference between tracking and observing sharks from a boat and being lowered into the ocean in a cage.

Moriarty ignored Sherlock and opened the door to the plane's cockpit. Moran was already getting ready, piling bags which may or may not have belonged to himself or Jim or even other smuggled items into the corridor. Their pilot was silently helping. Moran left him and opened the cabin door for Jim. The blond man was the first to step out into the cool air. Stair steps descended from the plane and Jim followed quickly after, passing Moran.

A sleek, black car was waiting for them on the tarmac. It could have been something sent from Mycroft for all its indistinct elegance. John F. Kennedy Airport sprawled around them. "Let's move!" Jim shouted from the ground, already in a hurry. 

Sherlock shadowed along behind them as quickly as he could manage with his stiff muscles. There was nothing else for it - he couldn't hope to make a run for it at the moment. Even if he somehow managed to get away from Jim and Moran, he had no way of knowing what his legal situation was. Mycroft would try to help him, but there was only so much he could do if a situation got too public to alter or disappear without notice. If things were as dire as he thought, he'd just be escaping into a prison cell for life.

"Oh stop worrying," Jim said, slowing to match pace with Sherlock shoulder to shoulder. "I can hear you from here." He slipped into the car when they reached it and left the door open for Sherlock. He waved him in and patted the seat beside him.

Moran passed, expressionless, and went around the side to speak to the waiting driver. The luggage from the plane was placed in their trunk. Moran shook hands with the pilot, and then walked out of sight to see him off. 

Sherlock watched Moran go out of the corner of his eye. It was unlikely the pilot was going to be left as an eyewitness, not unless he was a particularly trusted minion or someone on whom Jim had an unbreakable hold. Mycroft had always been particularly good at obtaining the latter with people, since he was loathe to have to clean up after a trail of dead bodies unless he had to. His brother's pretense at having some morals.

Sherlock wondered if he could test Jim's intimation at telepathy. He'd have to think of something suitably random, something that couldn't be easily predicted.

When they were all settled, the driver shut their door and they pulled out, passing the Transportation Security Administration like it was nothing. They took the JFK Expressway until they reached the highway and the low thrum of a motorcycle edged in on them from behind. It was Moran.

The denser the city, the more congested the traffic became. Even at this time of day, they slowed to a crawling pace just outside of downtown Brooklyn.

Jim seemed at ease once again, quietly pleased as the towering city passed by outside their dark windows. He rummaged through a mini fridge and uncorked a bottle of champagne, then handed Sherlock a glass. 

Sherlock accepted, thinking _Paleobiology_ as loudly as one could silently consider nouns in one's mind. It was childish and pointless, but he didn't much care. The more logical portion of his brain cautioned him that he should reign in his impulses to lash out; Jim had enough power over him at the moment without him handing over more.

"Where are we going?"

"Upper East Side, Central Park. For now. I have this suspicion you might like Greenwich Village, and you may need a new coat. Better place to find one." Jim smirked then narrowed his eyes. He looked up and down Sherlock's countenance. "Stop making that face. Whatever you're thinking, it's annoying."

They were passing over Brooklyn Bridge, and the view was spectacular. 

_Ornithomancy_ , Sherlock shot back silently, turning away to watch the buildings rushing by. He would concede the point; he did need a new coat. The cheap pleather monstrosity that the Met had lent him didn't do much for warmth and looked terrible besides. He already missed his Belstaff. Sherlock had never really considered himself to be a man that took pleasure from routine, but recent events had given him a new perspective on just how much he'd relied on small, reliable comforts.

They entered the thick of the city and again they slowed to a crawl. Half the city had foregone cars altogether and were taking things on foot. They passed St. Andrews Roman Catholic Church and the Supreme Court of NYC, even One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the New York City Police Department.

Jim couldn't resist a jibe at that. "Don't get any ideas," he said with a grin and a sip from his glass. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Jim. "I have no desire to be stuck in a cell for the rest of my days. As should be obvious by the fact I let you knock me off a bridge to avoid it."

The best he'd be able to do would be to draw his brother's attention in some way. If he wasn't publically arrested, Mycroft would be more successful in pulling off the backroom deals needed to clean up his record. The difficulty lay in trying to surreptitiously gain his notice without the rest of the authorities and the general public. Mycroft wasn't as close with the CIA and FBI as he wished to be, and by the time he got word of what was going on it was very likely that Sherlock would already have his face plastered over the American news channels.

They moved along through the city, out of the financial district, passing SoHo and Gramercy Park. Moriarty sipped his champagne and was content to leave Sherlock to his thoughts, but those dark eyes barely wavered from the detective.

When they passed Sutton Place, Moriarty downed the rest of his glass and put the bottle away. The Upper East Side was nestled between Central Park and the river, and consisted of sprawling, towering apartment complexes. The more conservative of the two sides, it held an unusually regal, quiet air about it - if there was ever a part of the city that could be considered quiet. Their car pulled up to the designated valet point, and before its passengers were ushered out, Moriarty turned to Sherlock. "Welcome home, dear."

Sherlock didn't know what he'd really expected - flats tucked away in one of the shadier portions of the city in an attempt to pass beneath notice, perhaps - but this hadn't been it. The shops and restaurants tucked along the streets all had a well-kept, fashionable look to them that indicated it was a neighborhood that attracted persons from the higher rungs of society. It was a pocket of affluence tucked into the metropolitan sprawl.

Upon further reflection, perhaps it was the _perfect_ place to hide. People of wealth and status valued their privacy and understood the same of their peers. They noticed one another by inspecting the visual status symbols to ascertain that a stranger was a member of the club, tallying the unspoken signals and trappings that announced one's class and monetary status, but they didn't really _look_ at who was attached to those symbols unless they had a reason to. Nobody knew him here; if he dressed the part, he'd disappear into whatever name Moriarty gave him.

Jim climbed out ahead of Sherlock and waited for him to follow. He took in a deep lungful of air. "Ahh, the great New York smog," he announced, but grinned down at Sherlock as he climbed out. Moran's motorcycle proved to be extremely useful navigating the busy streets. He'd pulled up right behind them and was taking care of their driver. Moriarty paid little attention. Instead, he held out a hand to Sherlock. "Come, come. Let me show you around."

Sherlock eyed the hand and decided to ignore it. He stepped out of the car and drew closer, indicating that he was willing to follow but not touch the other man. Already his eyes were darting around, his mind kicking into high gear as he took in their unfamiliar surroundings. He had a whole new city to learn from scratch.

Jim only shrugged and walked ahead. The doorman greeted Jim with a nod and they entered a lobby, unassuming from the exterior but undisputedly extravagant in its interior. White marble under their feet flowed into floor to ceiling mirrors that ran the length of the lobby, the space only broken up by equally white pillars cut like Grecian arches supporting the room. It was lit softly, not an easy task in a space made so light and expansive.

The man at the front desk nodded to them as they passed. "Mr. Anderson," he said congenially, and Moriarty lifted his head with a sharp smile in acknowledgement. 

Sherlock wondered if those mirrors were merely opulent or whether they served another purpose. If the owners of the building were clever, they'd have made a few of the panels one-way mirrors and hidden cameras behind them. After the clutter of life in London, where space was expensive and even the roomiest homes tended to have a cluttered feel to them, the emptiness was mildly shocking. Given that New York couldn't be far behind London in terms of the price tag per square meter, Sherlock's estimation of the building and the neighborhood ratcheted up a few more notches. Affluent indeed.

They entered an elevator and Jim had to swipe a key card to begin its ascent. "You can trip the wire in this control panel if you ever find yourself without your card," he mentioned offhandedly. "But I have one for waiting for you. Do try not to lose it, they're a pain to get out of management."

The ride was long. Moriarty's flat was one nearest the top of the building, with only one or two floors between. Easy access to the roof, then, but not to the ground floor. That had to be a tactical move, which suggested that Jim might have means of transportation on hand that could reach the roof of a high rise more quickly than the street below - helicopter being the most likely.

It also made it more difficult to slip out unnoticed. Interestingly, Moriarty had indicated that Sherlock was going to be given his own key, which implied that he'd be allowed to wander outside the building without supervision. He wouldn't need his own key if he was always under the watchful eye of Jim or his bodyguard.

"Does that card come with a curfew?" Sherlock asked, mouth curving into a derisive smile.

"I don't anticipate the need of one," Moriarty replied, holding Sherlock's gaze in a manner that wasn’t quite a smile, yet exuded a certain warmth just the same. On women, it was called the "Mona Lisa smile". On Jim Moriarty…it was something else entirely.

Finally their elevator chimed and the doors opened. Jim broke the moment and stepped through without hesitation. The door opened directly into the apartment itself, and for one in more than a hundred floors in one of the most sought after neighborhoods in one of the largest cities in the world, it was spacious.

Sherlock's eyes widened despite himself as they stepped out. He'd been to the gilt-encrusted palaces and manors in and around London, as well as throughout France and Germany, but this wasn't Old World wealth. The sleek marble floor led up to giant windows that served as the outer walls, giving a spectacular view of the city. Area rugs that doubled as works of art were scattered among furnishings that bore the crisp lines of modernism while still managing to look comfortable.

Sherlock walked further into the living room, eyes following the track lighting and continuing up. The apartment took up _two floors_ \- there to his left was a staircase leading upward. One of the upstairs rooms had its own balcony, overlooking both the rest of the apartment, with its high ceiling, and the view of the skyline outside.

Jim followed him to the center of the living room and then stood back and watched Sherlock's progression through the rooms with smiling eyes. His hands lodged themselves in his trouser pockets and he leaned against one elegant column running up to the ceiling.

When Jim had had his fill of watching, he followed up the stairs to join Sherlock on the open balcony. 

Turning left would have them facing Central Park, turning right would give them a decent floor plan of the apartment. Jim stood at Sherlock's side, hands still in his pockets but unable to fully wipe the smile from his lips as he watched the other man. He was obviously pleased with Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he was impressed. Moreover, he didn't need to say anything - Moriarty already knew. Sherlock tore his gaze away from the windows and turned to Jim, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. The stark contrast to his environment of the past few decades was making him feel even more lost and out of place, like he'd truly been transplanted into someone else's life in a completely different world.

"Where am I staying?" he asked quietly.

Jim inclined his head. "Here," he said, leading with his shoulders and moving backward through the upper floor of the apartment. A full set of rooms awaited him, a bedroom, a study, a bath. The study was the largest of the three and though it did not break from the luxurious theme of the apartment as a whole, it looked to be set up with function over form in mind. Work could be done in this room. A mess could be made there, and the sleek floors could be easily cleaned. The bedroom was a shade darker than the other rooms, set with a contrasting black and white bedspread and accented with dark leather furnishings.

All of it was untouched. Moriarty had either stripped his presence out of the rooms meticulously, or he had set them up specifically with Sherlock in mind. 

The thoughtfulness didn't pass beneath Sherlock's notice. He'd been expecting Moriarty to try to keep him like a pet, forced to share space under constant watch. The fact was that the man had given him not only separate rooms to retreat to, but the unspoken permission to make it his own.

A splash of color in the bedroom caught his eye, sharp blue and white a stark contrast to the darker palette of the rest of the furnishings. The skull portrait from 221B was propped up against the nightstand, just waiting to be hung.

Sherlock turned to Jim and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Oh, yes… I brought a few things so you could feel more at home. There was one other…," Jim paused thoughtfully, rubbing his fingertips over his bottom lip. "though I _may_ have misplaced it…. No matter. I have a feeling it will turn up _somehow_ ," he added dismissively with a wave of the hand. The exaggerated tone of his voice suggested there might be more to it than that, but Jim strode off down the stairs and gave it no further comment.

Sherlock stared hard at the empty space where Jim had been, then followed him back downstairs. "You did _not_ misplace my watch," he snapped, irritated that the man had dropped that in his metaphorical lap before retreating. The way Jim was walking just aggravated him further, a sway that was more at home on a catwalk than a private apartment.

Jim turned on his heels, head cocked and brows quirked in confusion. "What, this?" He pulled one hand from his pocket and there, hooked on his finger with its long, golden chain, hung Sherlock's watch. He flicked it open and admired its face before snapping it shut and pocketing it once again. He gave Sherlock a toothy smile. "No, I keep this very close to me," he said, then spun back again and continued his walk to the kitchen, picking up his phone from the granite countertop on the way. 

Something snapped in Sherlock, that tiny bit of added pressure cutting away the last bit of restraint he had over his temper. He stalked forward, closing the distance until he could seize a handful of Jim's suit. He spun the smaller man around and pressed him against the counter with a growl, using the extra leverage of height to pin him there. "Give. It. Back," Sherlock hissed. " _Now._ "

Jim let out a tiny squeal at the demand and his hands flew up in mock surrender, but he was still smiling. "Whoa! Easy now." He tugged against Sherlock's hold but the detective didn't loosen his grip. Jim raised an eyebrow, a flirty glint in his eye. " _No_. I want to hold onto it a bit longer." His hands laid over Sherlock's fists in his coat, this time simply resting over them. 

Sherlock did something too quick to follow - a flick of the wrists, a sweep against one ankle - and suddenly Jim was immobilized on the floor, legs entrapped by Sherlock's own and hands pinned to the ground. "I'm not playing games about this. You've ripped away everything else I've ever had." Sherlock leaned closer, a dangerous spark alit in his eyes. "Give it back."

"Fine!" Jim snarled back, his eyes going dark with an anger that nearly matched Sherlock's. "You can have it, _but I come with it_." He craned his head and shoulders up off the floor as much as his body would allow. His lips pulled back from his teeth like an animal, brows dipped into a low furrow. 

Sherlock snarled back, his gaze drawn to Jim's mouth. He darted down without thinking, teeth sinking into the man's lower lip until he tasted copper. The muscles in his arm bunched and he clenched his hands in a bruising grip around Jim's wrists. Sherlock was angry and frustrated and he couldn't fix any of it, but he _could_ dole out a portion of his rage on his captor and let Jim feel a bit of what he'd inflicted on him.

Jim cried out in pain, or surprise; it was difficult to tell. His voice was a sharp scream that echoed across the high walls and died out in a guttural groan. His hands clenched, his body stiffened. His legs jerked as if he were about to shove Sherlock off, but the attempt ever came. Instead, Jim bit back. His shoulders bunched as he lunged up to meet Sherlock's mouth. Jim's teeth gnashed into the detective's upper lip in return and they were suddenly caught like that, bleeding from their mouths and locked together.

Jim's eyes were wild, alight with something that looked like _glee_. His snarls came in bursts like laughter, euphoric laughter.

Sherlock grunted in pain as their blood mixed, anger filling his eyes. Jim had not only bit back, he was _laughing at him_.

Sherlock pulled back, crimson droplets falling from his mouth as he stared haughtily down at the madman beneath him. He was still laughing, still _happy_ , and all that did was add fuel to the flames. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Jim's head turned slightly for a moment and he took the opening, latching teeth onto the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.

That brought another screeching peal of broken laughter from Jim, who seemed to be having the time of his life. He was gasping and crying out in a mixture of pain and euphoria and if one hadn't known any better, it would have seemed as if here on a particularly bad trip.

The flesh under Sherlock's teeth was reddening. The tendons he had managed to snag were being smashed together under the power of his jaw. Jim's skin broke. If Sherlock's mouth had been wide enough to catch Jim's windpipe, it might have been over for the criminal.

Jim's face was red from the pain, or the sheer glee this was causing him. He wriggled underneath the detective, planting his feet on the floor and lifting his hips to press their bodies together where Sherlock was straddling him.

A warm hardness pressed against Sherlock's hip. It was enough to shock the detective out of his fury, his bloodied teeth suddenly releasing Moriarty's skin with a quiet gasp. Sherlock pulled back, confusion entering his gaze as he tried to connect all the disjointed pieces that had led to him pinning Moriarty on the floor and trying to tear his throat open. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. Sherlock absently wiped at it with the back of his hand, staring at the red smudge it left across his knuckles.

He was abruptly on his feet and retreating back up the stairs, the watch forgotten.

Jim lay on the floor, alone, and groaned.

He sat up, slumped forward with a scowl, and just stayed that way. His lip was oozing blood; his neck was raw and sore with a few indentations that had broke the skin. Two drips had landed on the pristine white of his shirt. His jacket was horribly crumpled. He glared up to the second floor landing where Sherlock had disappeared. Jim’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, feeling the damage. The scowl on his face deepened. He'd need stitches.

Sherlock, in fleeing to the bathroom that adjoined his private bedroom, shut the door and leaned against it. His breath came in short pants, his mind struggled to grasp exactly what had happened.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd physically attacked someone who'd made him angry. He certainly hadn't worried at them with his teeth like an animal, he knew that much. It had to be the stress. That was it, he was having a breakdown of some sort.

Crimson dripped onto the floor. Sherlock swiped his tongue across his lips and instantly regretted the sting it got him. He padded over to the mirror to take stock of the damage, wondering whether Jim carried any bloodborne diseases and he'd just unwittingly infected himself.

Eventually Jim pulled himself off the floor. He stretched his neck and felt pain shoot through his nerves. With his mind focused, it didn't bother him, and he was now focused on Sherlock. He dug out a towel from the kitchen, wetted it, and pressed it to his lip, then ventured up the stairs.

Sherlock's bathroom door was closed. Jim rolled his eyes and rapped the back of his knuckles against it. "Come _ooooon_ , Sherlock. Time to see the doctor," his voice was back to its lilting, casual tone again, but muffled with the cloth pressed over half his mouth.

Sherlock, rinsing out his mouth in the sink, had heard Jim's footsteps approaching the door well before he finally knocked. He grabbed a towel for his mouth and took a deep breath before opening the door.

Jim mirrored him, with the exception of the ring of teeth marks and bloodstained collar. They stared at each other for a moment, rags pressed to their injured lips. Sherlock's eyes still held a spark of anger, but it was quickly drowning in melancholy.

Jim snorted, apparently finding humor in the situation. He finished punching something into his phone, and turned it off. "Downstairs. He'll be here in a minute," Jim said and turned.

Sure enough, the doors clicked open a moment later, which was a surprise in itself until Moran walked through. He carried a leather kit in one hand, reminiscent of an old fashioned doctor's bag. His movements were quick and angry even when seen from the second floor. His footsteps were heavy and punctuated on the floor until he wandered far enough to find Moriarty coming down the stairs. He was clearly frustrated about something. His posture broadcast 'I told you so', possibly indicative of a conversation they'd had prior to bringing Sherlock here. Jim only waved him off with one hand, passing into the kitchen to find a seat that wouldn't get blood all over the floor.

Sherlock hesitantly followed along behind Jim. He would have thought it odd for a marksman to also be skilled in the medical profession before he'd met John, but now the juxtaposition no longer surprised him. The thought sent another spike of grief through him; John was abandoned on the other side of the ocean while Moriarty had his own version tucked safely by his side.

Sherlock took a seat a short distance away from Jim, putting some space between them. He'd had enough close contact with the man.

"The fuck did you two do to each other?" Moran asked, all formality he'd had on the plane now gone.

Jim only rolled his eyes. "Can you patch us up, or not?" He was leaning sullenly in his seat against the island countertop, feet kicked up to perch on the chair next to him. Each of the men in the room were at opposite points of a very unhappy triangle: Sherlock bitter and homesick, Jim frustrated at having his moment taken away so abruptly and a nasty gash left behind, and Moran just angry that Jim had clearly not taken whatever advice he'd offered about Sherlock.

"Yeah, yeah…" Moran acquiesced and brought out sterilizer and the items needed for suture.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as Moran leaned forward to tend to Jim's wounds. There was something interesting there, hidden just beneath the surface; the bodyguard had an attentiveness that loyalty couldn't fully explain. Moran looked even bigger than he was when sitting next to Jim's smaller frame, and the touches weren't entirely clinical as the bodyguard-turned-doctor sterilized the cuts and tilted Jim's head so he could sew the gash closed.

Jim's eyes darted over to Sherlock, the rest of his body unmoving, and caught the detective watching. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile without the involvement of his mouth. There was no way Moran wouldn't have noticed. Still, he continued his work until Jim had three neat stitches in his lower lip. He took a thin cloth an wiped away the remaining blood and saliva with it wrapped around his thumb. When he was finished, Jim opened his mouth and worked it around, testing the pull, then tested it with his teeth.

"Don't _chew_ on it," Moran said sourly.

Moriarty sighed, flopped forward and rested his elbows on the countertop, chin in his hands, and an expectant raise of his brows at the "doctor".

Finding it easier to leave Jim alone than engage him further, Moran cleaned his utensils and moved in front of Sherlock.

"You know, Jim," Sherlock began, his speech slightly muffled from the towel still clutched to his mouth. "You may find it easier to just get what you want from Moran. I don't think he'll object, which is more than you can say for me."

A muscle in Moran's jaw twitched. His mouth twisted into a frown. "Here. Let me help you with that," he said, reaching out to move the towel away and took hold of Sherlock's lip, pulling the detective forward with it. He wasn't gentle about it.

Jim looked on with a wince of sympathy. " _Yeeeeouch_. Not sure I'd put dear Sebastian off, if I were you. Makes for horrible bedside manners."

The way Sebastian was acting, it was quite possible he had never seen evidence of Jim’s sexuality in the entire time he'd worked for the man. Not anything besides the acts he played from day to day for unsuspecting pawns in his games. Not until now, when Moriarty's work with Sherlock had been building to a climax and the obsession had really shown through. 

Hearing Sherlock confirm it aloud clearly made him obviously upset and uncomfortable.

Sherlock flinched as Moran pulled him forward but refused to make a sound. Grey-blue eyes stayed fixed on Sebastian's face as he stitched Sherlock up with far less tenderness than he’d shown towards Jim. Sherlock felt a vicious spike of satisfaction each time the needle jabbed through his lip; he'd hurt Jim's henchman. It wasn't as good as getting revenge on Jim himself, but it would have to do. Clearly the attempt to hurt him physically had backfired - Jim had enjoyed it too much.

Sherlock smiled when Moran finished, careful not to pull the thread. "Try biting him the next time you fancy a bit of attention," he advised the man. "It seemed to do the trick."

"Dearest Seb knows that's the quickest suicide he could ever attempt," Jim leaned across the table and whispered it in Moran's ear, making the man's eye twitch with tightly controlled humiliation, possibly anger. Then Jim slid off his seat and headed off to the living room. "I think that about does it, don't you, Moran?" he called over his shoulder.

Moran's shoulders eased the tiniest bit of their tension at the dismissal. A single bead of sweat trickled down his hairline. He _had_ been afraid of Moriarty. He looked at Sherlock, the discomfort still evident in his posture, but if his gaze could be read, it seemed he understood why Sherlock had said what he'd said. The detective was trapped, here against his will, and Moran wasn’t stupid. He understood it as the lashing out it was.

Sherlock followed Moran's train of thought as if it was written above his head. Their eyes met and Sherlock gave the smallest twitch of a smile and a nod. 

Moran was correct, but he wasn't going to get an apology. Sherlock hadn't quite figured out what had happened between him and Jim to generate such devotion, but Sebastian had made his choice and was here because he wished to be. Unless Sherlock saw an advantage in manipulating the man until Moran was in his good graces, there would be no love lost between them.

Sebastian cleaned his tools, packed up his things, and silently left. Once the door closed behind him, silence reigned.

The New York skyline twinkled outside one half of the apartment. At dusk, it was breathtaking. 

High rises towered like columns of light around and below them. In the middle of it all Central Park sat like a black, square hole, punctuated only by street lamps far, far below. Off in the distance, the massive towers of downtown loomed.

In the living room, Jim sat in the dark, staring out at it.

Sherlock watched the sun set from the kitchen windows, the fiery colors gradually fading and the city lighting up below like so many scattered embers. Beautiful as it was, boredom tugged at him, pulling Sherlock to his feet until he found himself in the living room, staring at the outline of Jim sitting in the gloom. Sherlock wasn't afraid of the smaller man, but minutes passed before he ventured any closer.

"What did you misplace?" he asked softly; the hush in the apartment was such that Sherlock was reluctant to shatter it completely.

Jim rested his head back against the sofa. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked up at Sherlock. He looked more closely. Jim must have found the subtle traces of Sherlock's restlessness. The return to their former conversation was also an indicator. Jim's composure lightened by several degrees. The detective's unremitting curiosity pleased him. 

"Your head."

Sorrow flickered across Sherlock's face before being replaced by determination. "You wouldn't be so careless to actually lose him," he pointed out. "Which means that you've hidden him." His eyes narrowed. "What do I have to do before you'll tell me?" It was cruel, informing him that one remaining friend had been brought along, only to be used for blackmail, perhaps lost forever if the desired price wasn't paid.

Jim frowned at Sherlock. "Nothing. Because I won't tell you." He laid his head back against the cushion again, seemingly unhappy with the assumptions behind Sherlock's accusation. His eyes refocused out the window, somewhere far off across the park where the lights began to blur together there were so many.

Now that it was dark, their faces were bathed in the city’s hues. Sherlock was all soft blue on one side, but the shadows along his neck and up half his face were thick as ink. It gave Jim dark circles beneath his round eyes and heavy shadows under his brows, reminiscent of a cartoon burglar. "Why have you bothered so little with astronomy?" he asked abruptly.

"Because aside from the occasional eclipse throwing people into a panic, it really doesn't factor into everyday life. People don't make life-altering decisions based upon what orbits what, how much mass a particular star has, or the angle between two planets." Sherlock paused and reassessed. "...except for the occasional occultist, but those are easily recognizable and don't require any real knowledge of astronomy. It just..."

Sherlock gestured, frowned, sat down on the other end of the sofa. "It doesn't matter. Not for what I do."

"I would have liked to show you…" Moriarty said, "but with a canvass like _this_ , it will have to wait for another time." He gestured to the sky over the city, dark and murky with smog and light pollution. Not a single star was visible, and suddenly Jim was unhappy with the city he'd been so proud of earlier. He sighed and dug his chin into his chest. "You are a master of facts, but your forte is people. You take them apart and find their _raison d'etre_. I _give_ them one. I put them together, build them out of nothing." Moriarty's eyes hovered over the city. "…if you ask the pizza boy about your little dilemma, he might know a thing or two."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, watching Jim's expressions and body language shift in the dim light. The man was a puzzle, able to mask his core as well as Sherlock's own brother. But whereas Sherlock could still mostly read Mycroft because he _knew_ his brother, _knew_ his thoughts and personality from growing up together and speaking on levels deeper than words could sometimes express, Jim was an enigma. Sherlock had no way of knowing whether this was Jim with his guard down or yet another facade.

"Jim. I can call you that, can't I?" he asked, waiting for Moriarty to turn his attention from the window. "...I want a violin." He'd have to figure out later which pizza boy the man meant.

Jim looked up at that. "Done. Tomorrow we'll go out and find you one. And yes…I would like you to call me Jim." His moods were like the arc of a bouncing ball. The corners of his mouth pulled back, showing the smallest of smiles. His eyes traveled along Sherlock's frame, assessing, not leering. "You barely sleep, but you look tired. Today has taken its toll on you." 

"You shouldn't be surprised by that." Sherlock was used to pushing himself to the limits, but having his entire life ripped away, only to be dropped into a new one not of his choosing, would cause anyone to start unraveling at the edges. Sleep wouldn't chase the shadows away.

"I'm not," Jim met his gaze boldly. "You were drowning in that life. I chose to take it from you. For some ungodly reason you wouldn't do it yourself." _You could be so much more. You could do so much more._ Those words were left unsaid, but clearly spoken in the silence between them.

Jim had known the amount of respect - no, disrespect, the Met afforded Sherlock. He had been completely aware of Sally's burgeoning paranoia about him and then used it to further his own plot. It was difficult to say whether he knew of Mycroft’s ever watchful eye.

"I was happy with how things were. It wasn't your right to choose for me." Just as it hadn't been his brother's right to forcibly drag him off the streets and keep him under house arrest until he was compliant and clean. It had worked out for the best, true, but Sherlock would never admit as much to Mycroft. He still hadn't forgiven him, and this... this was so much worse than what Mycroft had done.

Mycroft had threatened him with a number of consequences if he'd turned back to a life of addiction on the streets, but the option had always been left open to him - short of keeping him under house arrest forever, Mycroft had had no surefire way of preventing Sherlock from doing as he pleased. Jim had left him no openings at all.

Moriarty's head turned, looking up at Sherlock through slim, pointed lashes. Everything about him had a quality of sharpness, his brows, his teeth, his stare…his mind.

"It's not the right of a predator to kill its prey; it's not the right of the rich to dominate the poor; and it's not the right of the privileged to marginalize the non." Moriarty frowned, pouted really, and bent closer to the detective. His focus honed in on the man like a laser. "No…it was not my _right_ to choose anything for you. But I did. I took it anyway. And that is the way the world _works_ ," he hissed. "No one gets a free ride." With a short breath through his nose like a miniature dragon, Jim was calm again. "If you truly detest the life you'll lead here, I trust you'll be smart enough to find a way out," he smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "And won't that be the battle of a lifetime."

Sherlock felt a cold fury grip him for the second time that day. He turned his head to regard Jim with an icy gaze. Dark thoughts rippled beneath the surface, though his expression never altered. "Yes, it will. I wonder," he murmured, smoothing his voice into something pleasant and warm. Sherlock leaned forward and began to slowly close the distance between them.

"I wonder," he continued. "If your motto remains the same when you're placed on the other side of the equation." Sherlock's hand shot up, fingers closing around Jim's neck. "Hmm?"

Jim's pulse quickened under Sherlock's hand, but it wasn't fear in the criminal's eyes. His smile widened, but it looked like he was fighting to pull the corners of his mouth into a frown. 

It was an act. 

He clearly knew what he was doing and he was letting himself grin in Sherlock's face. "Oh honey," he crooned, "I've already been there. And you know, _youuu knooowwww_ ," his tongue licked over his bottom lip, "that's why nobody ever gets to me."

Sherlock _knew_ it was an act; he could see it from the look in Jim's eyes, the minute hesitation of his facial muscles as he wavered between a grin and a frown. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched the man's tongue trace a line over his stitches. "Because you think you can take a little pain, because you've done it before?" he asked, a slight smirk curling at one corner of his mouth.

Slowly, Jim shook his head. Yes, it was a bit of that, sure. But, that was not the heart of it. "You asked me on the plane how I wanted to die," he said softly, eyes unrelenting in their stare. "I've wanted to die for so long, Sherlock. You really…are the only one who could understand. For years I've wanted to end it, the monotony, and I was only getting older…closer to the real end of it all." Jim's mouth twisted down, smile gone. "And wouldn't that be the ultimate tragedy? Death by old age, when life in its horrible and mundane state decides it wants nothing to do with you anymore. Nothing much matters after the age of twelve, you know. Not for me, anyway." Jim sighed, closing his eyes and pressing his neck into Sherlock's hand. "I'd begun the plan, you know, to end it all. It would have been, had to have been, _magnificent_. Nothing less. I would have taken _nations_ out with me. …and then _you_ came back. You reappeared out of the darkness," Jim's eyes opened and his voice wavered in awe. "And you, you wade me want to live again."

Silence hung between them.

Jim's lips twitched into a cold, little smile. "So no, there is nothing you can do to me that would make me change my mind."

Sherlock stared, fascinated despite it all; the rage was still there, smoldering beneath the surface, but Jim was pliant beneath his hand. Willing. Had confessed that he'd wanted to die, was willing to go to his end if that's what the future had in store. Curiosity crept in at the edges of Sherlock's mind and his thumb absently stroked over the madman's jugular.

"Why twelve?" he asked.

Jim snorted. It was a small huff of air over Sherlock's wrist. "Because that was when the only real challenger left the arena. Before we even got started. That was really rude, by the way. They locked you up in that big house and told you to be normal and decent, and you never ever knew there was someone out there who could be _just - like - you._ " He licked his lips again, the new swelling of it getting in the way of his speech. Jim pouted again, but this time there was a quality of sincerity in it. "That was all I had to live on for years. Nobody, not _one_ , ever came close to seeing what I could do."

The movement of Jim's tongue was distracting, swiping over abused flesh and black lines and leaving them glistening. "I've never been normal and decent, not even when I was trying,” Sherlock admitted. “Mycroft isn't either, however much he pretends otherwise when he thinks he's being observed."

The lines of Jim's mouth were somehow more interesting than they should be. Sherlock had seen thousands in his life from observing both the living and the dead. There was nothing particularly unusual about it - perhaps it was a bit fuller and more delicate than men's lips tended to be on average, but nothing truly strange. Still, Sherlock found his gaze following the curves, watching them shift as Jim spoke. "What had you been hoping for?"

Those lips spread into a wide smile. The sutures tensed and pulled at Jim's delicate skin, but it did not hinder the man's movement. "Only for you to _stop trying_." Jim's eyes fell to Sherlock's hand at his throat. "You are _so_ like me. …we are the same." His voice was reverent, bordering on quiet fanaticism. Jim's hands lifted to Sherlock's face. Slowly, gently, he cupped the detective's cheeks in his palms, a gesture so incongruent with Sherlock's own hand still wrapped around Jim's neck.

Sherlock started, eyes widening as his whole body tensed. He'd been distracted to the point that he hadn't noticed Jim's hands moving - _how hadn't he noticed?_ He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. There wasn't a chance that Jim had missed seeing the way his pulse had jumped.

"I'm not certain that we are." Similar, perhaps, but not the same.

"And where do you see my miscalculation…?" Jim's tone calmed. His focus remained open as an unnatural stillness came over him. He held Sherlock's head carefully, both of them locked in the moment.

"I've never killed for enjoyment." That was the line, wasn't it? Sherlock had killed when he'd felt he'd had to, had used methods that could be labeled torture in order to gain information or take revenge... but neither had been an end in itself.

"And where, exactly, have you deduced that the act of the kill, and that alone, could ever be enough for me?" Jim whispered harshly. "People die _every day_ , forgotten, _boring_. But put a man under stress and you will find his true nature. He'll reveal what matters most to him, and _aaaaaaaall_ of his little tricks and disguises that he thinks will keep him safe every day will fall away, and what's underneath is left bare and open to the world. Not just to us, but for everyone to see. Nothing does the trick quite like a little _killing_. Fear makes us all. And a man without fear…well, that's something else."

That... that, Sherlock actually understood. A shiver passed through him. Jim's fingers would notice the minute trembling, without a doubt. Sherlock felt exposed, his own keen focus stolen by another and turned on him. He didn't know whether he should tighten his grip and end things right now or whether he should pull back and flee. Or both.

Jim's eyes crinkled at their corners, one side of his mouth pulled into a half grin. "And wouldn't it be wonderful if all the world could see what we see in people, exposed, and know that _we had been right_ all along?"

One of his thumbs swept over Sherlock's cheekbone, a motion pronounced by the stillness they'd held for so long.

Sherlock had always been curious about the claimed phenomenon of hypnosis. He wondered whether this was what it felt like, suspended in a feeling of unreality, trapped between options without a sense of where to go. Everything felt muffled, and he couldn't think, and the sound of his own rapid heartbeat was filling his ears. A light touch on his cheek made him shiver again and start to pull away, but dark eyes held him in place. Sherlock stared into them and felt like he was being sucked into an abyss.

Think, he had to _think_.

Jim's eyes grew larger until it was revealed to be only an illusion; he had simply leaned closer. Sherlock's arm bent to accommodate the movement until they were face to face, inches apart. They really did have matching stitches now that they were comparable. Maybe they would have matching scars as well. Their breaths ghosted over one another's lips. Jim's eyes bore into Sherlock's like he was looking past them and into the man's brain. It was right there before him, the control station of Sherlock Holmes, as that of Jim Moriarty was before the detective. 

Jim pressed his forehead to Sherlock's.

It was too much, too soon. Flight reflexes kicked in and Sherlock struggled to pull back, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He couldn't even think clearly about what he was going to do, where he would go, he just needed to get away from the eyes and fingers burning holes in his psyche and pulling out all of the thoughts he kept locked away.

Jim's grip tightened. His upper body moved forward to keep the contact. His eyes fluttered shut, an expression of longing flashed across his features. Jim's fingers clung to the back of Sherlock's head, twisting into his dark curls of hair.

"No, don't…," Jim whispered softly, smoothly, hoping to settle the spooked Sherlock. "Stay."

Sherlock froze in the middle of pushing Jim away, his hand still on the other man's chest and forming a narrow wedge between them. He felt less threatened without Jim's intense scrutiny, but it was still far more physical contact than he was used to. Sherlock recalled the last person he'd touched to this degree, the way John's body had slotted neatly alongside his own, and Sherlock's stomach twisted.

"...no," he whispered brokenly.

Jim's eyes snapped open. All warmth in them had cooled to a dull anger. With a grunt he shoved Sherlock away, hard. Jim was on his feet in an instant. His hands fisted in his own hair, pulling it up until it nearly stood on end. He paced in a circle, quick steps and the rapid murmur of his voice, unintelligible to anyone outside his own head, meant that he was having a debate of sorts. With himself.

Suddenly, Jim stopped, pivoted, and looked at Sherlock. He'd come to a conclusion. "You have an aversion to physical contact. I suspected before…but," he shrugged as if it were that simple, "I'd never seen you with anyone worth touching, anyway. I wouldn't have blamed you."

Sherlock's heart was pounding as dark eyes fixed on him again; even with the space now between them, he felt nauseous. Part of his mind was screaming at him to run, get into the elevator and lose himself on the streets; he felt safer among the common predators.

"Not exactly." Lies between them would be worthless - they were both too good at what they did. Sherlock got to his feet and moved sideways, keeping an eye on Moriarty as he maneuvered towards a possible escape route.

Jim's head shot up. His eyes riveted on Sherlock. " _Not exactly_ ," he repeated, nearly spitting the words. "'Not exactly', indeed." And then he shot forward.

He was fast for his height. Jim darted around the couch and lunged for the taller man.

Sherlock's eyes widened and training overrode any lingering thoughts. He planted his feet in the ready position and brought his hands up, waiting for Jim to step within reach.

Jim was all wild black eyes and a grin that split his face mid leap when he saw that Sherlock was going to stay, fight and not flee. He ran at Sherlock, arms outstretched, open, far too open and leaving his body vulnerable.

Sherlock's hands moved quicker than Jim could react. 

It was _too easy_ , the way he'd launched himself with wild abandon, and Sherlock manipulated the momentum with minimal effort. Jim's body twisted as Sherlock stepped sideways and then he was pinned, face down to the floor, one arm wrenched behind him and one of Sherlock's knees digging into his spine.

A screeching, giddy laugh erupted from Jim's throat. "Aaaha! But _this_ is contact you can take, is it!?" Jim twisted his head to the side as far as he could to look up at Sherlock behind him. His teeth gleamed in the light from the city. He was grinning so wide it looked like an animal's snarl. "What do you say, you want to pin me down for it? I can't say I've allowed the honor to anyone else."

Sherlock gritted his teeth in response and tightened his hold on Jim's arm; if the madman tried to attack him again, Sherlock was going to make damn sure he'd break his arm. The body beneath him was shaking of laughter, conjuring memories of the crack addicts he used to see on the streets, completely swallowed by their mania.

"Pin you down for what?" he asked in a near-shout.

That got another peel of laughter. "Really, Sherlock, you _can_ be thick sometimes. No wonder why that peculiar flatmate of yours is a walking case of blue-balls." Jim stopped for a moment to get out a really good giggle. "You better make your move while you still have the chance, honey." He wiggled his spine, hips rocking back and forth as much as they could.

Sherlock paused for a moment, parsing Jim's words into something understandable. His lip curled as he realized what Jim was implying, what Jim _wanted_. What he might try to do given the opportunity. It should have been bloody obvious from the video, really.

Sherlock's free hand tangled in Jim's hair, pulled, then quickly shoved the man's head against the floor in an attempt to disorient him. Sherlock scrambled away from him and made a break for the elevator, clawing at the call button.

The button depressed, but it didn't light up no matter how many times Sherlock tried.

A pointed little cough from the other side of the apartment drew the detective's attention. Jim, a little woozy, had followed, was leaning against the wall of the vaulted ceiling with his mobile in hand and a piteous look on his face. 

He shook the phone in his fingers as if it naturally explained why the elevator wasn't operational. "You left and I wasn't done flirting with you. That's a bit rude."

A rare flicker of fear passed across Sherlock's face. He hadn't considered the possibility that Moriarty had altered the building's elevator system. As high up as they were, without an outside fire escape, he was well and truly trapped. With a madman who wanted to have intimate relations of some kind and was unlikely to care whether they were consensual.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and began calculating the possibility of reaching his room and securing the door before Jim caught up. Given how fast he'd seen the man move, luck was not on his side.

"Oh my _god_ ," Jim said haughtily and gave a huge roll of his eyes at Sherlock. "You are _far_ too easy to work up." He held out his hands, the phone still clutched in one, and moved away from the wall. He stopped a good twenty feet away from the detective. "Look, no hands. I won't touch." He took a step closer, then two. "But you need to get over this."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously and his chin tilted in a classic expression of pure stubborn will. He was tired of being manipulated, tired of Jim getting his way, tired of the emotional rollercoaster he'd been chained to. "I need to 'get over this'? I don't recall ever agreeing to _this_ ," he hissed. "I don't do _this_. I'm not interested."

That received another eye roll.

"Don't be so _dull_ , Sherlock. It's a waste of that great mind of yours, behaving like a poor, defenseless little thing." Jim sighed. "Now, I'm going to go to the kitchen," he pointed to the other room with both his forefingers, thumb swiping over the phone, "with my Frosted Flakes, and _you_ can do what you like." As Jim twirled on one heel, the elevator's call button lit up behind Sherlock.

Sherlock stood quietly, gaze riveted on Jim as he disappeared into the other room. He didn't hesitate when the elevator door opened behind him. He stepped backward, pushing the button that would take him to the ground floor.

He'd agreed to die, in a sense, in order for John's life to be spared. Jim's physical designs on him hadn't been considered when the decision had been made. Given the choice, Sherlock preferred to take his chances on the streets.

Jim took a box of dry cereal from the pantry and flopped down on a stool in the kitchen. He set it on the countertop before him and glared at it. He wasn't hungry. Jim rarely was, and when he was his tastes usually ran higher. 

He backhanded the box across the table, scattering the pristine floor in a shower of flakes. Chin in his palm, he let out a sigh and looked out at the city again. 

This was expected, more than expected. Sherlock didn't see how close they were yet. But he couldn't help the dark edge of disappointment creeping in on his senses. At least, Jim was nothing if not patient.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. We're sooo bad at getting up the motivation to edit.

Several hours later Sherlock had calmed somewhat. The city might have been unfamiliar, but humanity behaved in predictable ways and the culture of the United States was very similar to that of England. After a bit of effort he had managed to pick several pockets and stockpile a sizeable amount of cash. A keen eye helped him spot the right sort of people to ask for directions, and he'd taken a cab to East Harlem after procuring a list of names.

People were cautious around strangers, but much more pliable when one had money to spare. After a couple of misses Sherlock managed to find a dealer who had what he wanted, of decent quality, and who was willing to sell to an unknown face. Sherlock had gone through the actions mindlessly in a back room, fingers shaking from stress and the itch for relief. The reward for all of his trouble was worth it when the drug took hold. An extra layer inserted itself between his mind and the world, creating a soothing, dreamlike detachment that drained a good portion of his pain away.

Sherlock left Harlem with several vials and a kit stashed in his pockets, a clearer mind, and a curiosity for the city that looked to be his new home. If he was stuck here, he might as well see what he'd gotten in the trade.

Hour by hour the city awoke around him. There were places traffic never ceased and others that were deserted until rays of light peeked over the horizon. Pedestrians emerged and began the daily, tireless bustle of the morning rush hour. 

For a few hours Jim Moriarty was a distant figure up in his ivory tower on the East Side.

It wasn't until the detective returned to Central Park that things became truly interesting. Hot dog carts and gyro stands began setting up along the sidewalks. One or two people walked by with slices of pizza, thick cut and smelling delicious. But then a whole flock of them emerged - businessmen, twenty-somethings, store clerks, casual pedestrians - each holding slices of pizza. Some had two or three a person.

One tawny haired boy in particular had mashed four together, two in each hand, and was strolling in Sherlock's direction.

A memory of a brief snippet of conversation echoed in Sherlock's mind. He moved to intercept the boy, a question on his tongue.

He wasn't terribly good with children. He could never quite figure out where the line of disbelief lay - when particular expressions or body language evoked fear or distrust instead of being accepted or laughed away as eccentric quirks. Neither did he have a lot of patience, even while understanding that he was dealing with minds that were not quite developed and sorely lacking in experience.

"You. Boy. Yes, yes, you," Sherlock affirmed when the kid looked at him in surprise. "Where did you get those?" From the traffic flow, it was somewhere nearby and relatively recent. It was unlikely that large swathes of people were randomly taking to the street with pizza in hand, so the distribution point was likely to be outside.

Pale green eyes widened at Sherlock, but the boy didn't turn away. He'd been startled, Sherlock was a tall man with a hard voice, but there was an unusual moment of recognition in the child's gaze. He'd never met the detective before, but something clicked in his mind.

"This weird guy was handing them out. Just around the corner," the boy pointed. "but he ran out. Are you Sherlock?"

Sherlock's smile never wavered. "Yes. You have a message for me, don't you?"

It was beyond coincidence that Moriarty had told him to seek out a pizza boy, and one had just appeared out of a crowd, knowing his name and seeming to recognize him. He'd been given a description and sent to wander.

"Yeah. I'm supposed to tell you a riddle." The boy looked down somewhere at the ground between them, remembering. He didn't seem like a shy child, instead one who frequented the park with his friends quite often if the state of the grass stains on his shoes were any indication. Probably was used to talking to strangers. "He said: 'Think of home, honor the dead at Grove Church…and remember your last test that never happened. Put them together and you'll find the friend you've been looking for'."

When he finished, the boy looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock blinked, looking through the boy to the data points in his own head. Grove church sounded straightforward, like an actual local landmark. Old churches had graveyards on the grounds, which would be an optimal place to hide a skull.

Less obvious were what home and tests had to do with anything. Why ask him to think of home when he already knew that his missing friend was one of the things taken from 221B? That was pointless to add to a riddle unless it was representing a piece he hadn't realized yet. Likewise, the last test he could recall not taking had been a chemistry practical back in 2001. The test had been trivial nonsense, nothing that would be applicable to finding a hidden object.

"That was all he said?" Sherlock asked, frowning as he turned the pieces over in his mind.

The kid shrugged. "Yeah. He said you'd figure it out." The boy looked disappointed, like he too had been wondering what the answer was. He took a large bite of pizza and watched Sherlock, waiting.

Far down the walkway, two other children, one boy and one girl, shouted for him. He ignored them, but probably just as much because he wanted to keep the pizza to himself as because he was curious about Sherlock's riddle.

Sherlock began muttering to himself under his breath, drawing up what he could recall of New York City. So much data had probably been lost, discarded as tidbits that wouldn't have relevancy to any cases he'd encounter.

The cemetery was a fixed location. Home was also a fixed location. That meant that the third piece could also be referencing a location - the question was whether it was the subject or the time that was important. There were many chemical companies in and around the city, along with schools that offered degrees in the subject. Surely there would be an additional data point to narrow down which chemical location was meant... unless it was the date that was important.

2001\. That year meant one obvious thing to everyone on Manhattan. If that held true, then the third location would be where the twin towers had fallen.

Three locations. Sherlock spread his hands and frowned, tilting his head as he looked at the configuration. Jim wouldn't have split Eli into thirds, and certainly wouldn't have left a piece of him in England, completely irretrievable. The easiest solution would be the center point in the triangle made by the locations, but that put Eli in the ocean. 

_Unless_.

Unless Moriarty meant "home". Or rather, what he hoped Sherlock would eventually call home - _Jim's home_ in New York. Sherlock mentally adjusted the point from 221B to the flat on the Upper East Side. The destination point shifted to someplace less impossible. Sherlock reached for his phone, then remembered he didn't have it anymore.

"Boy, what's in the neighborhood near..." Oh, yes. He should have seen it before. Perhaps Jim was trying to be poetic. "Is there a well-known pizza restaurant in Hell's Kitchen?"

The kid blinked. "Yeaaaah…," he said as though that should have been obvious. "There's well-known pizza _everywhere_ , you're in New York." The implied '… _idiot_ ' was respectfully left off at the end. He'd obviously caught Sherlock's accent and thought maybe he could school the man more than twice his age. "But why do you wanna go all the way to Hell's Kitchen?"

He glanced down at his own pizza, then suspiciously back up at Sherlock. His pale eyebrows lowered, and, thinking it the cleverest thing ever, quickly licked all four slices. There. Now no one would want them. "Find your own pizza. Capizzi is good." 

It was worth a shot. If it was incorrect, he'd operate on the theory that Moriarty had instead hidden clues at each end point and begin making the rounds to collect them. "Hell's Kitchen is where my friend is likely to be," Sherlock said before he started walking, looking for a cab. The boy could keep his pizza; Sherlock was interested in bones.

Capizzi Pizza turned out to be a little sidewalk shop next to a fish market on 9th street. Unassuming on the outside apart from a row of spices and wines lining the storefront window, it was quite charming on the inside. Classically Italian, it looked like a restaurant one might have found in the same neighborhood in the late fifties, complete with an old ice box refrigerator and a bottled Coca Cola cooler. Spices and greenery hung from the open faced kitchen, behind which lay a large hearth. An old rotary phone for public use hung on the wall, next to an assortment of glass tumblers and…a very old fashioned cash register. Antique flair. A step up from the poor neighborhood it once was.

In the far corner of the dining area, sitting at a table set for two, was Jim Moriarty. He waited with a smile and a skull perched on a stick at his side. The two looked eerily similar.

Sherlock had approached the restaurant slowly, distracted by the decor and feel of the place. The added space between his mind and the outside world made it more difficult for certain things to touch him, but the distance could also highlight the aesthetics of his surroundings. Cappizzi had a classic atmosphere that made Sherlock want to stop and savor the warmth of history that still drew breath. He'd had plenty of opportunities for the occasional indulgence in London, but it was going to be rarer to find places with the same weight of time that Britain had.

His gaze finally slid towards Jim and his missing friend. He gave a ghost of a smile in return and walked toward them, sliding into a seat at the table.

Jim's smile curled up. He laid one elbow on the table, chin in hand, and gazed at Sherlock. "You didn't keep me waiting. I appreciate your haste, and I'm impressed. Oh, what's that?" His slim brows rose in surprise and he looked over to the skull. It turned on the stick as if regarding Jim face to face. "Is that so?" Both turned back to Sherlock. "He says he's missed you, too."

"No, he didn't. He says the flight was cramped and uncomfortable, that you're an ungracious host, and he wonders how you'd like a stick up your arse. Also, my speed is nothing to be impressed about. Make the next puzzle more difficult." Sherlock glanced down at the menu on the table, frowning. "Also, East Side isn't home," he added mildly. "You haven't ordered yet. You were waiting?"

Jim inclined his head, still smiling. He glanced over at the skull and gave it a slight nod in acknowledgement of his scolding.

"I was waiting for you, of course. You can't spend your first day in New York without trying the pizza. That _would_ be a tragedy." Jim snapped his fingers and hailed down the waiter with a wave. He spared one last glance at Eli, then turned big, pouty eyes on Sherlock. "I think he could learn to forgive me. Not so sure about you though…"

Sherlock stared at him impassively - there were still small lines of irritation around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but they had softened drastically from the deep, angry furrows of the previous night. "A simple puzzle and an invitation for lunch doesn't really outweigh what you've done and attempted to do. Food bribes don't really work on me. You're thinking of my brother."

Sherlock's bluntness was par for the course, but the tone was ever so slightly off. There wasn't any real bite behind his words, just ghostly remnants of the anger and anxiety hiding among the syllables.

Jim's eyes slid over him as piercingly as Eli's hollow gaze, but the waiter soon arrived at their table. Jim ordered two hot italian sausage, roasted eggplant, and portobello mushroom pizzas all without taking his gaze off Sherlock. His behavior, and possibly the real human skull, visibly unnerved the waiter. Jim paid him no attention and didn’t move until he left for the kitchen. His eyes narrowed on Sherlock's sleeves, then rose to meet the detective's own. Dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

Jim was out of his seat and across the table in less than a second, his face inches from Sherlock's and one hand raised in a strike that never actually landed. His eyes were like lasers watching for a reaction.

There was a tiny hesitation when Sherlock flinched, almost imperceptible. Lines of nerves tangled and dropped the signal for a split second. Sherlock's arm raised to block the strike too late to stop Jim's hand had he attempted to follow through. He blinked and frowned at Jim in confusion and a dulled sort of irritation.

Jim's sudden movement should have sent a spike of adrenaline through Sherlock and made his pupils dilate in response, but they stayed fixed points of black among the grey.

Jim's eyes widened in fury. Sherlock's pupils, the delayed reaction of his reflexes…if Jim had pressed his fingers to the side of Sherlock's neck, he was sure to find a slow, even rhythm and not the racing pulse that should have been there.

"You _little_ … So _that's_ what you did last night!?" Jim raged in Sherlock's face. " _Heroin?_ " His fist tangled itself in Sherlock's collar, pulling the taller man down by the neck. He was making a scene. The few other occupants of the restaurant had all turned to stare at them. "After _how many years_ and how _much it took you to use that muddled brain of yours again_ , you decide you can't take it anymore _NOW_!? So help me, I will _skin you alive_ if you allow this to go to your head." They were inches apart, Jim seething in anger, ignoring the wait staff. 

Sherlock snarled in response, struggling to detach Jim's hands from him and put some distance between them. "Given everything you've done, you should be grateful that's the worst of it. You kept pushing. Everyone has limits, thresholds which shrink when normal coping and release mechanisms are not available to ease the situation." Sherlock eyed him coldly. "Or would you rather I had reassessed my earlier decision and sampled another bridge without the assistance of your lackey?"

"Is that your method of _release_?" Jim spat. "Doesn't sound like _coping_ to me. You want to cope? Let's cope. You go find yourself another bridge, or you come with me, tonight, and watch me work." His voice was a low hiss at the end. He sat back in his own chair, but moved it very close to Sherlock's. "You need to relax? Get your violin and come with me to watch these pathetic people squirm and you can take them apart all you want, bit…by…bit."

Sherlock watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, not the least bit perturbed by Jim's rage. He wasn't afraid of the smaller man torturing him via conventional means. "Clearly you've never tried it, or you wouldn't be criticizing how effectively it works for the non-physical." Sherlock glanced down at Jim's hands. "If you can manage your behavior towards me, I'll accompany you tonight."

It seemed like a small concession to make. "I still want a violin, and Eli, and the watch. And a guarantee. If I come back to the flat with you, you won't trap me there, and you won't enter my rooms uninvited."

Jim snorted. He sat back in his chair and regarded the other man. The detective was a strange creature indeed. Jim's own mind had never been a happy place, but it had never sought to be dulled or distanced. It was a place of constant _wanting_.

"I will not trap you," Jim conceded, voice as cool as ice. "I will not enter your rooms uninvited. You can have a violin and your 'Eli', and any other things you see fit to bring into the flat. But, I'm holding onto the watch a bit longer." It was strange how his voice could turn so cold, his body following suit, but there was still fire in his eyes.

Not even the sudden reversal of Jim's mood could throw Sherlock; the detective merely paused for a moment before a faint smile curled the edges of his mouth. His eyes weren't clouded by drugs, but _calculating_. "A bargaining chip, or a poor substitution for a leash and collar?" he asked with amusement. "I'm not going to stop asking. We both know I'd never permanently leave it in your hands, which means you know that it's a physical guarantee I'll return. You'll have to tell me what you want for it sooner or later."

There was a lull in the conversation as their food was delivered, the waiter quickly setting the table. They barely noticed.

Jim only smiled a half smile at the detective. His silence could have been an indication of either, or neither. The only surety of it was that it would become clear in time.

Finally, the smaller man moved. He took Eli off his perch atop the stick, and placed him on the table between them. Jim's lips curled fondly at the sight of it, their centerpiece. "Dig in, and then we'll find you a violin."

Sherlock's gaze slid sideways to rest fondly on Eli's grinning face, his smile deepening for a moment. He picked up his slice and began eating. He'd forgotten how hungry he actually was. That was one of the downsides of constantly suppressing and ignoring his body's natural signals - he was so used to disregarding his own needs that he occasionally had trouble noticing when he'd crossed the line from mild discomfort to actual consequences.

"...the kid was correct. This isn't bad."

Jim laughed softly into his own pizza. He said nothing, but the way his dark eyes reflected the light made them appear to twinkle at Sherlock. He could have said the first place he'd brought the detective had intentionally been a restaurant. He could have said he'd noticed the way the fabric of Sherlock's shirt clung a little too close to his thin belly. Or, that he had known precisely the last time Sherlock had ingested food. But he said none of it, and instead merely enjoyed Sherlock's newfound verbosity.

"I have a something in mind for your violin," Jim said. "A seller. He'll have a variety for you to choose from."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He'd noted Jim's sudden shift from anger to distant coldness to his current subdued pleasure. He filed away the data for later, wondering whether Jim's emotions always burned so quickly.

"I'm afraid it will be difficult to replicate my luck the last time I was looking for an instrument. It's not every day one finds a Strativarius, and it's even less often that you find a pawnbroker who doesn't know what he's holding."

Jim laughed deeply. "That only happens by luck, yes. But, I prefer not to rely on luck. I know for a fact that this seller has in his collection no less that three Stradivarii. Of varying worth, I'm sure, but you'll be free to inspect them yourself." Jim was smiling for real now, with a strange quality of Richard in it somehow. Richard had been fake if one knew what to look for, but Moriarty had been the one to create him, and after all it seemed expected that some of their traits should blur.

Sherlock stared at Jim for a moment, his expression similar to a small child who'd just trapped something in a jar he'd never seen before. The drugs in his system hadn't dulled his curiosity or his attention to detail. "I'll have to test them out to really know which is the right one. The right instrument should feel like a piece of you, because it is."

Sherlock took another bite of pizza, quietly observing. Jim looked very different when he smiled. "Are you aware that you do that?" he asked before the thought had finished forming.

Jim cocked his head. "Do what?"

He'd been watching Sherlock's eyes and body language and Jim had liked what he'd been seeing. They were having a conversation now, barely, but it was a natural one. And Sherlock was relaxed. He was controlled, stable, and hints of that great consciousness emerged in his bargaining attempts and attention to Jim. Under fear and stress, Jim noted, Sherlock's mind had been all but ignored. The opioid clearly made the difference there, which was fascinating.

"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it." Sherlock gestured with his free hand, indicating Jim's whole body. "Your masks are small pieces of you, to a greater or lesser degree. Your appearance changes rapidly depending on who you're wearing at the moment, or the mood. You look markedly different when you drop the smoke and mirrors and all the pieces align." Sherlock paused, wondering if the reverse held true as well. He'd never had his disguises critiqued - they were either effective or they weren't.

The small lines around Jim's eyes crinkled. He was obviously enjoying being the focus of Sherlock's attention. "How nice of you to notice. And yes, in a way, all of our creations reflect upon ourselves. And I….I am so changeable." He smirked, giving Sherlock a little secret. "It's a weakness."

Changeability as a weakness could have been the case. But perhaps Jim was being misleading and the real secret was that changeability, or adaptation, was one of the greatest strengths in nature. "Buuuuut," Jim drawled. "stubbornness can get one killed just as easily."

"So I've been told before, but so far I've only been killed once, and I believe I have my curiosity to blame for that." Anger and grief flickered through Sherlock's eyes, both dulled and ephemeral. He was too far removed at the moment for the emotions to touch him too deeply.

"Changeability isn't a weakness if focused properly." His brother came to mind, the way he changed skins and personas for every new audience until Sherlock couldn't recognize him beyond the layers of masks and ice. "But I can easily see it making you restless when your surroundings don't change with you."

Jim nodded, taking a sip of wine. "Very perceptive. And so, I've become adept at changing my surroundings as well. It's a shame more people don't make the effort." He sighed. "No one ever gives me a challenge. They're all the same, they all want the same things. It's all too easy."

Jim had only eaten half a slice of pizza and already he was pushing it around his plate with one finger, interested in inspecting it more than he was in eating it.

"You're going after the wrong people, then." Or maybe he wasn't; for all Sherlock knew, Moriarty might have pieced together his implied criminal empire from the other crime families in the world.

"Don't care for Italian, or just the conversation?" Maybe Jim was in the same state Sherlock often came to, mind humming with so many plans and ideas that he couldn't be bothered with mundane tasks.

Jim looked up, shrugging one shoulder. He picked off one sausage and popped it into his mouth, followed by another sip of wine. The body needs sustenance. And the pizza was delicious. "I get distracted," Jim admitted. Sherlock, Sherlock's presence here, and Sherlock's inevitable involvement in his work, however deep that would become, was very distracting. Even with Sherlock himself sitting across the table. "Tell me, would you be more interested in the forgery of religious texts or Renaissance paintings?"

Sherlock's gaze turned inward as he considered. "It depends on the goal. Renaissance paintings would be more profitable for the forger and a great deal more aesthetically pleasing, but religious texts have a far greater potential to pull interesting reactions from the general public. I've never quite understood how people can get so worked up arguing about topics that aren't logical and cannot be factually proven one way or another, but it's a trigger point for many. Texts would be more entertaining."

Sherlock turned his attention back to Jim, eyes sharp. He knew very well that his words would have an impact on the criminal's next plan. Equally interesting was the fact that Jim had basically admitted that he was distracting; surely neither of the offered crime options was exciting enough to make him forget about his food. Sherlock raised his glass and finally sampled some of the wine, contemplating the other man over the rim.

There was a risk of being misunderstood, but he was curious enough about Jim's trigger points to take a gamble. He let his fingers slide over the wineglass' stem, watching closely. He knew Jim wouldn't miss it.

The more of James Moriarty's buttons he learned, the better off he'd be further down the line.

"Noted," Jim smiled and raised his own glass. His eyes sparked at Sherlock, and in response his tongue ran across the top of the rim before his lips closed over it. He took a sip, then licked his lip and set the glass down. His eyes never left the detective's, saying without words that he was willing to meet the subtle challenge. "Institutions will suffer scandal after scandal and still limp on as the world laughs at them. One more blow to a religious institution has become almost expected at this point. Still, it never gets old in the eyes of the public. I have a client who's become obsessively interested in taking the Church, that is the Catholic Church, down another notch."

"That shouldn't be terribly difficult. They tend to get worked up by very predictable things. Give them texts that appear authentic that contradict long-held tenets and traditions, especially if it offends their prudish senses. Something empowering women or suggesting that Judas did more than kiss and tell."

Sherlock took another swallow of wine; he had never been much for drinking, but even he could tell that the vintage was quite good. "Or imply that the cultural institution of Greek pederasty was preserved in the church along with other cultural ideas and language. The general public is always keen for scandal and conspiracy theories, hidden groups within institutions that break societal taboos and morals, that sort of thing."

Jim inclined his head and gave a small toast to Sherlock. The detective was already thinking from a perpetrator's perspective. It wouldn't have been very much of a leap for him, as he did it constantly even when he was working on the legitimate side of the law. Sometimes Sherlock didn't know when to keep those kinds of thoughts to himself. Those were usually the times his proper little assistant would correct him. 

Jim found Sherlock's thought transition seamless so far. The question of whether it would remain so when theory was put to the test of reality would need to be answered soon. "Strains of behavior have already been outed and brought the Church to scandal, but those strains have never been proven to be linked to the very foundations the Church stands upon, no. Not yet, anyway." Jim smiled. 

Sherlock shrugged. "It would be an interesting experiment, at the very least. I suspect people will behave in predictable patterns, but it might be the final straw for the institution. What use is a self-contradictory and hypocritical morality system?"

Truth be told, Sherlock didn't have much of a grasp on what his own system was. He'd always known he was somewhere outside the boundaries that were considered normal, but even that had been pushed in the past few days.

Jim sighed. "I rather agree. They'll hold onto the system for as long as they can, and if it is done away with, it will not be because it was self-contradicting; it will be because it was ultimately ineffective at maintaining good standing with the world at large. The same kinds of people who made themselves through religion will learn to make themselves again through other venues." Jim slumped and stared past Sherlock. "It's all so very redundant."

"It's humanity." Sherlock's gaze swept over Jim, fascinated at how... unguarded the other man was in his reactions. This wasn't the vicious bravado or false cheerfulness he'd seen before - as far as he could tell, Jim was letting his shields drop a fraction, giving Sherlock a taste of what was beneath.

"If people bothered to know themselves and be honest about it, the world would be a better place. Or at least more interesting, less tiring. Everything is self-loathing. It spills out onto the people around us, because you can never accept in others what you cannot in yourself. They fake it all enough to delude themselves and most of the people around them, and so people fall in love with facades that cannot be kept up in the long run. They strike out in anger when they realize everything is a beautiful lie, rather than accept the reality of things. Really, though, most people are poor actors."

Sherlock frowned at his wineglass; apparently liquor loosened his tongue far more than he cared for. Or perhaps it was working in combination with the heroin.

"Poor actors indeed," Jim said. "The effect becomes all the more banal when you've distanced yourself from it, does it not? They're bound by these masks because they're dependent upon the community for acceptance, for survival. To give up the banality, you must give up the community." Jim's eyes raised to Sherlock. "Before I found you again, you had done so to a certain extent."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed in disbelief. "Hardly. I didn't really belong and it was obvious to nearly everyone. I was tolerated because I was able to deduce things their slow minds never would have caught, so long as I put up with constant levels of stupidity and incompetence and insinuations that I was a freak of nature. Potential flatmates don't take kindly to body parts in the crisper."

"Yet you stayed," Jim said, moving smoothly past the topic of John, "You allowed that to be enough for you when I know, I _know_ , it wasn't. It never could have been. Not surrounded by fools and your brother." And hadn't the distance between the brothers been fortunate for Jim. It hadn't been that way when he'd first laid eyes on Sherlock so long ago.

"You don't know that. There were dull periods, it's true, but there always are. It's always been that way, even before Mycroft decided to turn himself into an emotionless, domineering git," Sherlock snapped, his ire more for his brother than for Jim. "I had things under control, I was having fun, and I got to rub his nose in it every now and again by rearranging all his pieces on the board. I had-"

Sherlock bit off what he was going to say, stared instead at the crimson liquid inside his glass. "I had things that I wanted. I was content with it."

Jim's posture didn't change much, but the muscles and tendons in his body went rigid. His eyes lost all their warmth. The room itself might have dropped several degrees. "And with what, pray tell, were you content?" he asked.

"Unraveling the plans of everyone who thought they were clever. Making a show of it, much to the awe and shame of all the mediocre minds who gathered to watch. The thrill and danger of the chase, the look in their eyes when they knew I had them trapped and beaten. Access to bodies and chemicals for whatever experiments I cared for. A..." Sherlock frowned. He wasn't sure exactly what John qualified as. "... a _friend_."

Slowly, a smile spread over Jim's lips. The ice around him melted just as easily as it had come. "And you don't think you'll be able to have any of that now?" Jim leaned toward him, expression imploring, bordering on excitement. "Come with me tonight, and the night after, and the night after that. Come with me, and all that will be yours again." 

"I already agreed to accompany you tonight," Sherlock replied coldly, reminded once again that, despite the haze currently numbing the incisions, the man across from him had physically ripped his life apart. "I'm afraid you have quite the task ahead of you, if you're suggesting that you are able to replace John." He _couldn't_. There was only one of him, and Jim lacked the qualities that had made his companion everything that he was: the stable touchstone, the wordless comforting presence, the warm smiles and quirked eyebrows and the eyes that put him on a pedestal, the hand that brought him tea and his phone and ruined his experiments and painstakingly typed his stories one key at a time.

Sherlock lifted his chin stubbornly. "You are not John."

"Good lord, no." Jim curled his lip and waved off the notion as if it were the worst idea he'd ever heard. "But if you think you need him in your life, then you're just being unimaginative." Jim leaned back and sipped his wine. He'd gone through quite a lot, had finished most of the bottle himself. He didn't seem to notice.

Their pizza had gone cold. Jim looked distastefully down at what was left. He was ready to be done with this. "What do you say we find you that violin?"

"That's a better idea than finishing this conversation." An emotional vent would do him good. Sherlock knew very well that he'd be a disconsolate mess as soon as the drugs wore off and left his wounds exposed to the air. He wiped his hands carefully and snatched up his skull from the table, eager to leave.

Jim tossed down several neatly folded bills on the table and they were back out on the street in no time. They headed north along the sidewalk, passing pedestrians of all sorts. Jim kept pace with Sherlock and, just for kicks, began listing off quirks in the lives of the people they passed.

"High school dropout. On his way back from an interview at the local print shop, looks like a crumpled resume in his hands….oooh, not a good one, then." Jim nodded to a lanky twenty something crossing the street. "New teacher," he nodded to a young woman walking toward them, making no effort to lower his voice, "probably has high hopes for her future, but only experienced in student teaching so far. She's about to go through her first year of hell in…..Ohio? No, Nebraska, just to escape the NYPD investigation she's under for….pornography….but not the kind that features herself." Jim twirled watching her as the woman passed, eyes wide and face pale at overhearing their conversation. "Oho, now that's a surprise!" Jim added with a grin, briefly making eye contact. They walked on while she stopped in the sidewalk behind them, staring in shock. 

Sherlock smiled despite himself; this was an old game, and one he enjoyed playing. He nodded towards a middle-aged man a way ahead of them. "Unhappy marriage, two Jack Russell Terriers, no children. His wife wants them but he's infertile, which is one of major tensions between them. The other is the amount of time he has to spend at work, being a doctor. He's been staying late more often - she suspects an affair, but in reality he's been self-medicating. The hospital has begun to notice the missing supplies and his odd behavior, but he can't stop himself, even though it's only a matter of time before he's caught."

Sherlock's gaze flicked toward a woman browsing newspapers at a nearby stand. "Caretaker. She's been taking advantage of her position and the senility of her wards, skimming a bit off their pension payments and taking their belongings here and there. Some of them she pawns to supplement her income and pay for her expensive shopping habits. Others, she keeps, such as the ring on her right hand and the brooch she's wearing. She's careful not to wear them to work, but she secretly gets a thrill from the danger of wearing them in public, knowing that there's a very slight chance a family member of a patient will spot her."

They continued on like this for several blocks, taking turns until Jim hailed a yellow cab, taxi.

"Where to?" The driver asked as they got in.

He was middle aged. "Originally immigrated from Germany, living in New York for the past…ten, fifteen years, a wife, divorced, one daughter, grown and in college, but they don't talk. She thinks he doesn't care about her, probably because she's gay. He doesn't know she's gay, well, he does now, but originally he thought she was just headstrong and ungrateful." Jim continued the game right into the cab, and the driver, startled, turned to bluster at him. "Oh, shut up. We've got a long drive ahead of us and you're going to make it horrible. No, scratch that. Take us to 77th Street, Upper East Side." Jim dug out his phone and was dialing before the driver could get another word out.

"No, really. Do shut up," Sherlock added when the cabbie gaped like a winded fish and drew breath to speak again. "You'll regret it if you don't. There's no reason to be upset about that anyways. It's perfectly normal and healthy, no matter what you think currently, and if you are belligerent about it with her she'll cut you out of her life completely. You'll think she'll come to her senses and come back and apologize, but she won't, and in several years your relationship will be irreparable and you'll bitterly regret your actions. Watch that," he interjected, and the taxi swerved suddenly as the driver's attention snapped back the to road and they narrowly missed clipping a bicyclist.

"Jesus _Christ_ in Heaven, who the hell are you two?" the driver shouted. The near miss knocked him out of stunned silence.

Jim ignored him, on the phone. "Get the car, meet us on the street. We'll be pulling up within twenty minutes." He clicked it off and suddenly Sherlock had his attention again. Jim gave him a quick smile. "Not Christ, no. But you're welcome to try again?" Jim replied pleasantly.

A cruel smile inched its way across Sherlock's face and he leaned closer to the driver. Normally he avoided playing with the minds of those around him, but there was no longer a need to put up a moderate pretense of normality. "You should be happy we're not. I doubt Christ would be very happy with your side job, although I will concur that escorts do have a need for discreet and safe transportation. Doubtless it comes with perks, but not the sort that the police tend to be very happy about."

The man's face went red and he jerked back to the road in a cold sweat. His jaw tightened and his eyes locked on the road. "Don't know what you're talking about…" he mumbled, trying ineffectually to avoid and mollify his passengers.

"Look what you've done now," Jim whined, but he was smiling in that sharp toothed way of his at Sherlock. "I think you've put him off. Maybe we can find of the girls to cheer him up, hm? We're coming up on Park Ave, a bit out of his dollar range, but well… There was that coked up redhead three nights ago. Maybe she was an anomaly."

"Interesting. I don't often see skin with that level of blood saturation outside of corpses," Sherlock commented, noting the way the driver's skin had turned redder still. "Perhaps we'd better leave him be. With his blood pressure, he shouldn't be exposed to undue stressors."

Despite his words, Sherlock was well pleased with how this game had turned out, turning his gaze sideways to Jim and flashing him a victorious grin.

Jim matched the gesture with one of his own. He was completely relaxed now, leaning back against the seat and arms spread wide over the sides like he owned it. "I think he'll manage just a little farther. Can't _imagine_ what might happen to him should he slow us down with a little thing like a heart attack. …or to that daughter of his." The driver's haunted, pale grey eyes met Jim's black in the mirror. They drove faster.

Five minutes later, the cab pulled up on 77th Street. The driver's hands were white on the wheel. When Jim and Sherlock stepped out, he was speeding away before their feet even hit the pavement.

Sherlock actually _cackled_ , shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Well, that was satisfying." Eli was safely tucked between his torso and one elbow, grinning along at the joke.

Jim just kept smiling. When he looked over at Sherlock, it grew fraction by fraction until it could have split his face in half.

Another black car, similar to the one they'd ridden into the city rolled up in the taxi's place. The window rolled down, revealing Moran behind the wheel. He raised a single brow at their obvious glee.

"Sebastiaaaaan," Jim crooned. "Hope you're settled in for a long ride. Our last driver didn't do too well."

Sherlock opened the door and slid into the back seat, moving over so Jim could get in. "Is he fair game as well, or is that verboten?" he asked, tilting his head to indicate Sebastian.

Jim's grin never faltered. The door clicked shut behind him and he looked up at Moran. Jim had to lean closer to Sherlock to do it, but he and the bodyguard's eyes caught in the mirror. "Fair game. _Definitely_ fair game." Jim licked his lips.

Seb glared back at them through the mirror until Jim texted the address to Seb's phone and they pulled off the street, heading north.

Sherlock smiled, ignoring the way Jim had scooted closer. The proximity hadn't been uncomfortable thus far, so Sherlock was content to let it pass without comment.

"Tell me, Sebastian, how does one go from being a dominant military man to an obedient servant and willing prey? You were..." Sherlock's gaze swept over him. "...at least a colonel, if I'm not mistaken, and I rarely am. Skilled. In a position where you were used to giving more orders than you had to take. And now you eat out of Jim's hand and jump if he so much as looks at you crosswise."

Seb's cool blue eyes found theirs in the mirror again. Jim gave him a smirk and a half wink. His secrets were already known to his boss. Jim would join in if given the opportunity.

"Job has it's perks," Seb's voice was gruff but he shrugged, "Giving orders in the military isn't so much fun when they aren't your own."

Jim leaned in and whispered conspiratorially in Sherlock's ear. "Especially not considering the kind of orders he likes giving."

"Ah. You must have joined the wrong branch, then," Sherlock murmured smoothly, ignoring the shiver that had run up his spine. Why did breath on his ear feel so very... different? "I have it on very good authority that there are sections of the British forces for precisely that kind of thing."

"I imagine Seb might have liked working for your brother very much," Jim whispered again.

The eyes in the mirror were watching them with interest every time Jim leaned into Sherlock. Sebastian couldn't hear them, so he wasn't paying attention to what Jim was saying. It was the view itself from the rearview mirror that drew his eye.

"Too bad I caught him first." Jim sat back with a smile and met Sebastian's gaze. "I don't think he'll ever be turned now."

"Most likely not, given the way he reacts to you. Classic signs of mental and physical attraction, a bit more difficult to spot underneath the rigid discipline and professionalism," Sherlock commented. "It'd be difficult to lure him to an almost identical, if somewhat more sanctioned, line of work when he's quite taken with his current employer. My brother might be able to offer the right sort of work, but it would be missing that element of hopeless attraction and hero worship." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, daring Sebastian to deny it.

" _Okay!_ Why don't you two play a nice game of I Spy or something?" Sebastian grumbled loudly, eyes on the road, while Jim giggled into Sherlock's neck. The sound caught Seb's attention and he looked back at them again.

"We're never going to make it in one piece if you don't watch the road, Seb," Jim admonished. It sounded like an order, but there was a teasing lilt to his tone that couldn't be missed. 

Sherlock's eyes had widened as Jim laughed, pressed close enough that he could feel the vibrations of the other man's body through his arm while his breath warmed his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at Jim, as if the man would back off as long as he refused to make eye contact and acknowledge his presence.

"I'd rather not die in a car crash. That'd be rather anticlimactic, all things considered."

Sebastian huffed and turned his gaze back to the road.

"I don't think he's very happy with us," Jim pouted and sat back, putting space between himself and Sherlock as if without noticing. "How can I make it up to you, dear Sebastian? Do tell, I'm all ears. One chance. Whatever you like. Going….goooinngggg…."

Sebastian's grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he didn't turn back, recognizing the obvious tease for what it was.

" _Gone!_ " Jim crowed. "Ohhhh, you really should have said something while you had the chance."

"Really, he doesn't even have to say anything. It's written all over him." And why didn't Jim take that, when it was freely offered? Perhaps that was one more universal human trait, even for the most inhuman members of the race - the fixation on what one couldn't have, to the detriment and neglect of what was already in-hand.

Sherlock's gaze flicked up, staring at Seb's reflection in the rearview mirror. He'd have gladly let the other man have Jim's uncomfortable attentions if it was in his power to give.

Seb caught his eyes, but the ex-military man could not decipher Sherlock's motives as well as the reverse. All that Seb could determine was that Sherlock's gaze was not malevolent. Not yet. That could change easily enough in the future. Still, the detective's words were annoying.

Before he'd come along, things between Sebastian and Moriarty, even it only went one way, had been left unsaid. Now all was fair game, apparently. Not that everything else about Sebastian hadn't already been fair game for Jim, and Jim had obviously _known_ , he'd just never addressed it with words. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed bent on it. Seb turned on the radio. The classic sounds of Styx's Come Sail Away reverberated through the car at a much louder volume than necessary.

"I love this song," Jim chimed in excitedly.

Sherlock exhaled slowly and turned his head, watching the outside world rush by. The heroin had a dampening effect on his perception of time, making the view far more dizzying than merited by the car's speed. The detective's hands went to his pockets, one of them seeking out the remaining vials. He was already beginning to feel the effects fading - he had about two hours left, at most, before the downward spike hit him.

"How much farther?" he asked.

"Not much. Fifteen minutes. Our seller has a cozy little estate up near Yonkers," Jim replied, his eyes closed and head bopping back and forth to the beat of the music. Classic tunes did a number on him, apparently. Jim went from one to the next, equally engrossed.

Outside them, they city was becoming more residential. Skyscrapers gave way to apartment complexes which then gave way to parks and houses. They passed the city of Yonkers and continued northeast until they came upon a wealthier neighborhood. The autumn leaves were nearing their end here, but the landscape and estates that resided there were still striking, somewhat reminiscent of England. 

Jim got on the phone, and two minutes later they passed through an outer gate that unlocked at their arrival. They took the rest of the driveway up to a renovated colonial home.

Sherlock let himself out, stepping onto well-kept pavement that cut through an immaculate lawn. Classic garden plants flanked a pathway leading up to the house and followed the edges of the structure, making it look like a historic photo come to life. Well, aside from the obvious modern touches; an authentic colonial house would not have had security lights, an electric doorbell, or working plumbing.

A private collector, then.

Jim patted his shoulder. "Come, I'll introduce you." They made their way up to the door while Seb waited at the car. It opened before they had a chance to knock and a thin woman with long, dark hair and deep set eyes greeted them. "Andrew," she said warmly, with a hint of professionalism, "It is so good to see you again. Ryan is away on business, but you can look at anything you'd like, his instructions. We haven't seen you since, oh not since the Juilliard tour, is that right? I hope you've been keeping well."

Jim returned her greeting just as affectionately. "Grace, dear, let me introduce you to an old friend of mine. This is Sheldon, Sheldon Knightly." He gestured politely between Sherlock and the woman who was probably of Italian origin with her dark skin and light accent, "And Grace Von Fossett. She and her husband Ryan keep a rather impressive collection of antiquities. Sheldon and I are in the market."

Sherlock slipped into what seemed like the appropriate persona for the situation, inclining his head with a polite smile. "A pleasure to meet you. Andrew tells me you have quite the assortment, including several Stradivarii. He said you might be convinced to part with one of them." The matter of price went unsaid.

Grace's smile widened. "You don't say?" she began as she ushered the two men inside. It was even more stately than the outside, even a touch over the top. It was large enough for social functions, dinner parties and small galas, and there were probably many, but the signs in the floor and the articles of personal touch said that only two residents and the staff occupied the house. "He didn't tell you I'd tried to get him interested about a year ago, did he? He'd have none of it at the time, the tease. And then you come along and suddenly he's back on my doorstep? What kind of magic are you working?"

Grace was coy, that was evident, but she was working a sale and it seemed that there was little difference between her social acquaintances, dare anyone say friends if Jim could be counted among them, and her clients. 

"It's more of a personal favor than anything," Sherlock responded smoothly, following the cues of body language and gesture as Grace led them further inside. "I found myself in need of a new violin, and Andrew knows how rarely I settle for anything but the best. As soon as I mentioned it, he insisted we come and inspect your holdings."

Sherlock smiled at Grace, then slowly turned and gave Jim the same expression, adding a touch of fondness for show. "I think he just wants me indebted to him so he gets the privilege of free performances."

"And he would be quite right about that," Jim responded without missing a beat. It was impossible to tell whether the covetous look in his eyes was real or exaggerated. If his last reaction to one of Sherlock's performances was any indication, it was real. He’d immortalized it in digital form, that performance Richard had watched at the studio. Somehow, that seemed a lifetime ago.

Grace raised a brow as she led them up the grand staircase. "Must be one hell of a personal favor," she said with a hint of something that might have been insinuation. "But Andrew has the finest tastes of any man I've known. You won't be disappointed."

They reached a gallery with several string music pieces on display. She led them through it and into another, smaller room. This one was locked, and though the inside was also set up as a gallery, none of its instruments were on display. It was modern, nearly black in its interior and obviously made for sound quality. Grace turned to them with a quick smile. "Wait here. I'll find something you like."

She left the room and headed down the hall. Jim smirked. "She has a safe three rooms over. Doesn't want any of her clients to know about it."

Sherlock nodded absently, examining the structure of the room itself. Clearly there had been an intention for the room to be used for playing instruments; panels had been strategically placed on the walls to improve the room's acoustics. "I expect she also doesn't want some of her clients knowing about the black market statuary being stored in the basement. Spoils from the Iraq War are being watched very closely at the moment, making them impossible to safely sell at a profit."

He turned back to face the door, hands clasped behind his back as he waited for Grace to return.

Jim, his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels in delight. "Indeed." He giggled with mirth.

Grace returned with a small cart. She popped open its top and revealed three violin cases. "Alright gentlemen, you're going to _love_ this." She took out the first and placed it atop the room's display table. Opening it carefully, she revealed the violin inside. She plucked it out for the two men to see. "Made in 1690, the beginning of Stradivari's 'Long Pattern', this one previously belonged to a family on the west coast. Its condition has lasted very well." She looked Sherlock over subtly, yet carefully, eyes running from his trousers to his fingertips to his shoulders and face. No doubt she was measuring him up, looking for signs of his worthiness to hold the instrument. She reached her verdict within a second and offered it to him. "It's ready to play, if you like."

Sherlock only had eyes for the violin, inspecting it with singular focus. There were the slight signs of wear, of course, but the instrument hadn't been unduly neglected. There wasn't any notable damage to the wood, merely small marks that showed that the violin had been used for its intended purpose.

Sherlock nodded and stepped forward, delicately lifting the violin and bow out of the opened case. He checked the strings despite Grace's assurances that it was ready to play, adjusting the pegs minutely before testing out a few notes. Satisfied with the sound clarity, he launched into a Fugue by Bach. He wanted to see how well the instrument _responded_ , not just the overall sound.

Jim's eyes lit up immediately. His breathing quickened as if he were responding in place of the violin. Even Grace, who had no previous bias for Sherlock's skill, and was herself granted as a connoisseur of the profession, looked impressed.

Jim walked around Sherlock as he worked through the piece, dark eyes moving between Sherlock’s wrist motions and face as if studying the man for later reference. He might have been taking mental notes to describe Sherlock later, or composing a portrait of him in Jim's own unfathomable mind. Either way, he was barely subtle about it. Grace, by contrast, kept her distance respectful, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the sound.

Sherlock's eyes were unfocused the whole time, oblivious to the room around him as he lost himself in the sound and the feel of the strings beneath his fingers. Playing an instrument required a different type of thinking, a different state of mind. He couldn't approach it analytically while he did it. One would overthink and stumble. It had to be _felt_.

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled as the last trill echoed off the walls and died. He replaced the violin in its case with a touch of reverence. "You've done an admirable job of adjusting the room's acoustics," he commented, turning his attention to the other cases. "Show me the others."

Grace's face lit with warmth. "It's not every day that I get to invite such unexpected talent into my home. I'm glad it meets your expectations." She plucked out the two last cases, unlocked them and laid them side by side upon the table. "Please, be my guest." Sherlock now had her full approval to inspect them as he saw fit now that her trust in his abilities was won.

The other two were similar - well-kept with the small flaws that were inevitable with time, both gleamed with the finish that was one of the recognizable features of a Stradivarius. There was another Long Pattern and one that looked to be from Golden Period.

Sherlock selected the second Long Pattern and tuned it, wanting to compare the sound while the first was still fresh in his mind. He'd always preferred the slightly darker sound from violins made earlier in Antonio's career, despite the preference most had for the Golden Period.

Sherlock stepped back, inhaled, and began another Bach piece - a Presto this time, fingers dancing up and down the neck as quick, dramatic notes filled the room.

The quality of sound this close to the source and confined in such a space was breathtaking. Grace was as respectful as she had been before, though clearly enjoying the performance, but Jim planted himself as near as he could to Sherlock without being struck by the man's movements. While her eyes closed a second time, Jim's remained open, penetrating, assessing, calculating, and reveling in the music as though Sherlock were a gourmet feast.

There was no way for Sherlock to miss the effect this was having on Jim. He came out of his trance once he finished the second piece to find the smaller man almost on top of him, all dark, hungry eyes. Sherlock swallowed and stepped aside, replacing the second violin and picking up the last one to try. He avoided looking at either Grace or Jim as he tuned, not wanting to admit that Jim had unnerved him.

And why should that be? He'd stood in front of serial killers before without blinking, even when there was a possibility that he could be seriously injured or killed. Sherlock understood the desire to hurt other people, the general fascination with the mechanical workings of the human body. He'd never quite grasped the messy emotional and biological dance that patterned relationships and sex. He didn't quite know what to do with an admirer who wanted to do more than laud his superior intellect and admire him from afar.

Sherlock put the bow to the strings and began a Telemann Fantasia in B flat, trying to push the unease from his mind.

Jim didn't move. His eyes closed as Sherlock began his last piece, savoring it now while he could. Perhaps Jim imagined that he would not get to hear Sherlock play when he could shut himself away in his rooms later or simply wait for Jim to leave. The fear was baseless, if that had been his assumption. Then again, perhaps it was only that Jim was impulsive and Sherlock's playing was a new experience for him. He wanted to feel it, _taste_ it, as much as he wanted to hear it. 

Sherlock finished at last, replacing the last instrument. His hand lingered over the body for a moment, simply enjoying the chance to touch such an example of exquisite craftsmanship. He finally turned his attention back to Grace.

"I prefer the second, out of the three, the Long Pattern over the Golden Period. It does an admirable job of achieving the darker, richer qualities without becoming too... throaty," he explained. "What are you asking for it?"

Grace's smile deepened. She knew better than to try to upsale him on the Golden Period, even though it was worth more. She had better taste than that. Still, Sherlock's preference didn't leave her without options. Her eyes flicked to Jim. "Andrew and I discussed the price a year ago," she began, her voice rich and thoughtful. "You'll understand, I'm sure, if its value has increased somewhat since then?" She was going to make his return worth her wait.

Jim only smiled. "Don't be bashful now," he chided goodnaturedly. "Make an offer."

Her eyes set. "I would say…about $2,000,000 more."

Jim's teeth showed, but nothing in his body language hinted anger. His smile was simply unnerving. "Done."

Sherlock watched the exchange, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. He knew very well how costly an instrument like this would be. He also knew that, given the opulence of the flat Jim owned, it was well within the man's budget. Sherlock was caught between a rare feeling of gratitude for the gift and the residual anger that hummed through him, whispering that this was nowhere near enough repayment for what had been stolen away.

He closed the case on the second violin, securing the fastenings and taking hold of the handle.

Jim and Grace worked out the method of payment and shook hands. Sweetly, she kissed him on both cheeks to show her thanks and insisted that he and his virtuoso friend attend an upcoming performance with her at Gramercy Park later in the month. It would be one of the last shows of the season, apparently. 

This was how she worked. She was good at reading people, not in the way Sherlock was, but on an underlying intuitive level. When she shook Sherlock's hand, she made no move to invade his personal space as she had with Jim. Then again, she thought Jim was 'Andrew', a collector of fine things, similar to herself, and far more accessible than Jim Moriarty.

After safely locking away the other two instruments, she led them back down the staircase and thanked them. They said their goodbyes, and headed back to the car with Sherlock's new prize in hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE NOW HAVE A BETA! Isn't that amazing?? Seriously. It's exactly what we needed. Thank you so much to the wonderful [vague_flirting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vague_flirting/pseuds/vague_flirting) for giving up your own time to help us out. It's thanks to you that we're finally getting things moving again!

Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly as they climbed back inside. Emotional buildup was bringing him close to another Quiet Period, hovering just short of stealing his voice. He needed to play, to vent, to get it all out of his head somehow. It was only made worse by the withdrawal symptoms - his earlier shot of heroin was finally wearing off, evaporating the comfortable barrier it had erected between him and everything else. The end of a high always left him feeling melancholy, like the bottom of the world had dropped out beneath him.

They were pulling back out onto the road when Jim noticed. His eyes fell to Sherlock's hands clutching the case. "It’s leaving your system, isn't it?" he drawled, wondering at the effect diacetylmorphine was having on Sherlock…and the state it was about to leave him in. He leaned back in his seat to observe the other man.

"Yes." It was too early for the worst of it, but bits of the dysphoria and depression were already beginning, no doubt aggravated by Sherlock’s overall stress levels. He felt overheated. The anxiety and irritation would come next, he knew. Withdrawal was never pleasant. If left for too long without another dose, it turned into something rather similar to a five day bout of the flu, punctuated with black moods throughout.

Jim surveyed him with cool eyes. "What do you need?" he asked, even though he almost certainly already knew that another hit would take the edge off. He was testing Sherlock. He had to be. Testing to see whether Sherlock thought another hit and worse withdrawal symptoms later on would be worth it, or whether the one time had been enough to get him functioning again.

"Back to the flat." Sherlock's jaw set in a determined line. He didn't _need_ another hit. He didn't. It had been a mistake, a poison trying to make up for the pain of a threshold crossed. Even so, the knowledge that he had more vials in his pocket was gnawing at a corner of his mind, a siren song to drown himself in a haze of opiates until nothing could touch him anymore.

"I need water, and a cooler temperature, and to play."

Jim nodded. "Step on it, Seb," he ordered and the picked up speed right away, moving swiftly through traffic. Sebastian leaned down and then passed something back to Jim. It was a bottle of water. He'd been paying attention. Jim unscrewed the cap and handed it to Sherlock while the car's windows rolled down enough to let the cool air in.

Sherlock broke the seal and downed half the bottle in one go, shutting his eyes and leaning back against the seat. The breeze was helping. There was nothing to be done about the shivers. He concentrated on trying to separate his mind from his emotions. There were times he wished he'd gotten more instruction from his brother in how to do it; Mycroft seemed to have mastered the trick long ago, to the point that everyone he interacted with seemed to believe he had no emotions at all.

It had disgusted him at the time, but Sherlock could see now how it'd come in handy.

They had roughly thirty minutes to go, and they would be hitting traffic on the way back into the city. Jim watched Sherlock's trembling with curiosity. He watched the way the man arranged his long limbs to loosen and relax them as much as the space of the car would allow. He watched the way Sherlock's fingers stroked over the violin case.

"The park ahead, pull over," Jim said to Sebastian, who complied swiftly, taking them out of their race down the road to a sudden stop at a neighborhood park. Jim reached over Sherlock to open his door then nudged the man forward. "Come on, you can play here."

Sherlock nodded, scooting out of the door with case in hand. He didn't look to see if Jim was following. In all honesty, he didn't want to be observed. This wasn't going to be a polished classical performance; this was far more personal. There was a wrongness about having someone watch and listen, an air of voyeurism that reached into places he didn't usually let people see. John and Mycroft had been the only ones he'd allowed close enough.

Sherlock found a tree and sat at the base of it. He didn't trust his legs to hold.

Jim followed. He sat down on the other side of the trunk. It wasn't so thick that they couldn't see one another if either turned, but the moment Jim sat, he crossed his legs and leaned his head back against the rough bark, just waiting.

Back across the lawn, Sebastian got out of the car and waited against it. The breeze whipped his light hair up like a flag around his head. He stood and watched the two men sitting alone in the park underneath a maple tree. 

The deep reds and browns of the leaves were their backdrop, the green grass under their feet was sharp and cold, but neither paid much attention to their surroundings.

Sherlock retrieved the violin from its case with trembling fingers and tucked it until his chin. His breath was already coming in short bursts when he touched the bow to the strings and the instrument began to make what could only be described as a _wail_. Dissonant sounds echoed across the open space, drifting between angry accusations and black despair.

It didn't sound like music at all, or at least not what the general public would consider to be music. It wasn't pleasant. It was raw and painful to the ears, emotions converted directly into waves of sound.

The sound reached across the rolling hill of the park and permeated every tree, every structure, and every inhabitant.

On the other side of the trunk, Jim's eyes fluttered shut. He exhaled slowly, his hands clenched at the grass below him, as if he could feel the raw emotion coming through the sound.

Moran, back at the car, only frowned, not quite so affected by Sherlock's frenzy of pain and anger.

The rage gradually bled out of the violin's voice, leaving only a bitter sorrow that slowly trailed off and died into silence. Sherlock untucked the violin and let his head bow. He felt exposed, tears leaving damp tracks down his cheeks and exhaustion settling into his bones.

Jim didn't move. Softly, his voice filled the empty space left in the wake of Sherlock's tumultuous and ultimately sombre violin. "We might as well exist inside of a molecule for all that vastness we can never hope to touch or even fathom. How we _crave_ to know… It’s senseless. All our lives…. We're so young, aren't we? So pathetic. We know nothing and yet we are the genii. We are the ones surrounded by morons. Our knowledge is key to survival…." He'd gone somewhere in his own mind, taken away on the waves of Sherlock's grief. "The more I learn, the more I understand how little I truly know," Jim whispered.

Sherlock set the violin back in its case and secured it. He felt like he was trapped inside a dream. He'd only purged somewhere close to this much emotion a few times before, and each time afterwards there'd been someone nearby to catch him. Mycroft had always understood in the way that only he could, picking him up and holding him until he'd stabilized. Even after he'd grown too big for such things, making everything an awkward tangle of limbs and comforting silence.

Sherlock drew his legs up and tucked his face against his knees, hiding against himself. One hand reached around the tree, blindly seeking human touch.

Jim looked down when he heard the shifting and crunching of leaves. He stared at the searching hand for a moment before reaching out with his own. Jim's warm fingers grasped Sherlock's icy ones tightly. When that wasn't enough, his other hand enclosed Sherlock's until it was wrapped in warmth.

He shifted his body around the tree and pulled gently on Sherlock's hand, drawing the man nearer.

Sherlock went without a fight, moving until he was sitting beside Jim, tucking his head against the smaller man's shoulder. Part of his psyche was aware that this was the source of all of his anguish, the architect that had brought him to this point. The rest of him was drained to the point of regression, seeking physical reassurance like a small child. A hand had been offered and he didn't have enough conscious will left to refuse.

Jim pulled Sherlock closer and wrapped his arms around the taller man. His hands glided through Sherlock's messy curls, stroked over the back of his neck and up and down his long arms. Jim pressed his head to the side of Sherlock's, tucking the man against him fully. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating rapidly, just as Sherlock could feel Jim's. The taller man's breathing was deep, inhaling all he could get. Though they were silent, Jim did his best to comfort the man in his arms. His thoughts remained somewhere between Sherlock and his grief and the whole of the cosmos.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around Jim automatically as he was pulled closer. The embrace was awkward, yet comforting; the difference in height wasn't so great with both of them seated. The arms around him created an illusion of safety, the warmth and steady heartbeat beneath his ear a soothing rhythm that gradually replaced the static in his head.

Slowly Sherlock's skin was warming where Jim was touching him. He'd let his body grow cold in the elements without a care. It was strange how much heat the smaller man could emit. Dark eyes closed as Jim rested his own chin against Sherlock's shoulder at the crook of his neck. They stayed like that for a long time.

Sherlock gradually drifted back to himself. The precise moment he gained awareness of his surroundings was obvious from the tension that suddenly took hold of his frame. His muscles tightened and his breathing stilled. Sherlock's fingers released their hold on Jim's clothing and he started to pull back.

Jim frowned, letting Sherlock go. By the time he'd pulled out of Jim's embrace fully, Jim had lost most of his warmth. He looked at Sherlock, face devoid of emotion, then climbed to his feet. It seemed he wasn't going to mock or deride Sherlock's moment of weakness. In truth, it might have brought out a subdued one in Jim if the state of his musings were any indication. Silently, he offered his hand to the dark haired man.

Sherlock hesitated for a long moment, considering the hand as one would a viper. He finally accepted the offer, lacing his fingers thought Jim's and getting to his feet. He silently walked around the tree to retrieve the violin case, taking advantage of the small amount of privacy the trunk offered to scour away the remaining dampness from his face. Displaying this much emotion in private was bad enough; being witnessed by Jim and Sebastian was mortifying.

Jim waited only as long as it took for Sherlock to pack up the violin and come around the other side, then he turned and began making his way back to the car.

Sebastian had lit up a cigarette, but stomped it out when Jim returned. He said nothing and gave little indication that he'd witnessed anything out of the ordinary from either Jim or Sherlock, but the cigarette in itself was telling of the emotions underlying his hard countenance.

Sherlock returned to the car without struggle or fuss. An empty sort of numbness had settled into his bones after purging all the emotions he'd kept bottled up and he was in no condition to try to leave. Truth be told, for the moment he was content not to. Jim and Sebastian were maintaining a respectful distance and silence, he had a violin again, his skull had been returned, and a freely offered place to sleep that was warm and relatively safe compared to risking the unfamiliar streets.

Sherlock settled against the seat and cradled Eli in his lap.

Moran started the engine when they were settled, but didn't glance at them in the mirror, and then they were away again.

Moriarty stretched himself over the seat beside Sherlock. His head lolled back, eyes closed, arms over the back of the cushion, legs spread and kicked out as far as they could go. He breathed deeply. It seemed he might have been trying to clear his mind, until minutes later, he began to snore softly.

The noise drew Sherlock's attention. He still wasn't thinking clearly, his emotional outburst having temporarily overloaded his faculties, but his distress hadn't killed his insatiable curiosity.

Moriarty was an entirely different creature when unconscious. Gone was the humming tension that radiated from his shorter frame, as were the lines from his face. Without Richard's cheerful mask or Jim's dark intensity, he was just a man - slender, well-dressed, with a boyish face and delicate eyebrows.

"He'll be out cold like that for a while," came a deep voice from the driver's seat. Sebastian must have caught him looking. Or he'd heard the distinctive change in Jim's breathing. That was the more likely, as his gaze was still on the road and he was rather attuned to his employer. "Doesn't happen often."

There might have been an unspoken suggestion in the otherwise merely observational statements. _If you're curious, you might not get another chance to touch._ Moran's face was carefully blank.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to Sebastian before returning to the limp body beside him. He shifted closer, wanting to take advantage of the opportunity to look while his subject of study wouldn't examine him in turn.

This close, it was difficult to believe this was even the same man Sherlock had been dealing with. He just looked... _fragile_. The sheer force of personality Jim exuded while conscious wasn't present to obfuscate his physical vulnerability.

Then again, perhaps he wasn't vulnerable. People had seen Sherlock's lithe frame and made incorrect assumptions before, only to get a series of broken limbs and injured joints.

Sherlock licked his lips and very carefully touched a fingertip to Jim's bare wrist. The pulse beneath was slow and steady.

Seb's gaze remained on the road. For all intents and purposes, he may as well not have been there at all, which had to be intentional.

Indeed, Jim slept like he was dead. If it weren't for the snores and the pulse, he could have been mistaken for a fresh corpse. Judging from the depth of unconsciousness he looked to be experiencing, he had probably not slept the night before.

Sherlock could see the pulse at his neck. He _was_ still alive. Sherlock didn't know whether that was a relief or not.

"How often does he do this, and how long does he stay out?" Sherlock asked, eyes still fixed on Jim's sleeping form. Even if this only happened every so often, this was a window of opportunity, a weakness that could be exploited if he needed it.

"Doesn't do it much. Lasts maybe thirty minutes, give or take." Sebastian shrugged. "You must have had an effect on him." Moran acted as though he weren't giving away anything that might have been critical to Moriarty's longevity. It was doubtful that his tongue loosened when out from under Jim's thumb, but it was possible that this peculiar trait of Jim's would either have soon become apparent to Sherlock on its own, or Jim didn't care if it was given away.

"What do you mean? That he normally doesn't do this while in company, or at this time of day?" Sherlock frowned. He was grasping at straws for any advantage he could find. Jim was fond enough of him that he presumably wouldn't try to kill him, or at least not _yet_. Jim seemed to greatly enjoy Sherlock’s playing, but the lull his violin created would most likely only last for a brief time once it stopped. 

And then there was the matter of Jim's sexual interest. Sherlock refused to consider that unless that was truly his last resort. There had to be other leverage he could use.

"Not in company. He'll do it at any time of the day." Finally, Moran's clear, blue eyes sought Sherlock in the mirror. "He's got you, you know. You're trying to think of a way out, aren't you? But you know what I think?" The man's defined lip curled in a smile, only half visible in the glass. "I think he's got you and you don't even know it yet."

Sherlock turned to glare at Moran. "He's outmaneuvered me for the moment, not permanently. I don't want to be here. As flattering as his fixation on me was at the beginning, I don't care for what his end goal seems to be. I'm here only for as long as it takes me to slip the trap, and no longer."

Moran just smiled. Like he knew. Whatever had happened to him when he met Moriarty, he had obviously gotten over it. It was very possible he had seen others fall into one of Jim's snares as well. He broke their gaze and directed his attention back on the road, but not before giving Sherlock a wink and rolling up the privacy window between them, effectively secluding the detective and the slumbering criminal in the back of the car.

Sherlock would have thrown something at the window, but all he had at hand were his skull, the violin, and the drug paraphernalia in his pockets. None of them were worth ruining out of petty spite.

An idea sparked. Sherlock turned his baleful gaze towards his unconscious captor, hands sliding into his pockets. Seb had closed the window. He was completely unsupervised.

Sherlock had his kit in hand in the blink of an eye, sizing up Jim's build and making quick calculations. Tempting as it was, he didn't want to kill the other man. Not only would it be a waste, but Sebastian wouldn't take too kindly to having his employer killed right under his nose.

Sherlock grabbed Jim's arm, swiped an alcohol pad over the skin, and slid the needle in. All he could do now was see how this gamble paid off. If Jim was sickened and incapacitated enough, Sebastian's attention would be diverted to his care first and foremost, giving him room to escape. If not, it might prove an interesting experiment at the very least.

Ten seconds later, Jim's eyes snapped open. His lips parted in a gasp, head still craned back, whole body otherwise still. "You did NOT _just do that_ ," he hissed, whined, gasped. It fell out of his mouth like a jumble of sounds.

Suddenly his back arched off the cushion. His eyes fluttered and rolled back into his head. He looked like he was experiencing a very intense bout of ecstasy, judging from the open mouthed expression, when he turned and launched into Sherlock. It wasn't an attack, at least not one meant to cause harm. He didn't kick or bite or swing. Instead he flattened his whole body against the detective's with a snarl, grabbing for purchase anywhere he could to hold on.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he scrambled backwards, trying to put space between them. All he achieved was getting trapped against the door. Jim's reaction wasn't anything like Sherlock had expected; he'd been counting on Jim being dazed, sedated, happy and lazy. Instead the smaller man had latched onto him, hungry and demanding and with limbs in too many places at once. Sherlock had lost the syringe somewhere in the scuffle. "Let go."

" _No_ ," Jim hissed, wrapping one leg around Sherlock's and planting his other knee between two long legs. Jim's voice hitched, his breathing was still quick, trembling gasps. His eyes were unfocused, but his grip was sure. "If you were stupid enough to do this to me, then you get to _put up with me_." A surprisingly rational statement from someone who was experiencing an intense, unexpected high. His whole body shuddered, orgasmic, against Sherlock's long frame.

Sherlock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled from the sudden violation of his personal space. Jim had him pinned and was writhing against him from the first wave of the high. Pressed as close as he could get, even the layers of clothing between them weren't leaving much to the imagination. Sherlock could feel all the warmth and trembling firmness underneath that fabric. He was very much regretting his split-second decision to drug his captor.

Jim was groaning. He had just enough control not to rut blindly against Sherlock. But Jim didn't seem the type to be used to denying himself what he wanted. He kept them locked together, nose pressed to Sherlock's collar at the juncture of his collar bone, then rubbed his cheek up the long neck. "You smell _delectable_ ," he whispered against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock was beginning to tremble, lips parting to gasp for breath. Fear left his muscles wound into tight coils. He had no way to fight Jim off right now; the car was too cramped. He had no way to get a hold on the smaller man and pivot him away, and fighting him off directly hadn't worked.

Warm breath wafted across his neck, skin pressed against skin. Sherlock whimpered and bit down on his lower lip, fighting against the urge to thrash in a panic.

Moriarty stared up at him. His eyes were huge, but glazed over with a hazy lust. He threw his weight into Sherlock, rolling them just slightly so that he was more firmly on top. He buried his nose just behind Sherlock's ear. "And you feel _incredible_ ," Jim's lips murmured against his pulse, too uncoordinated to pull away enough for the words not to come out muffled. "Are you cataloguing my reactions? You should be. I'm going to need someone to tell me what I was like when this is all over." He sounded breathless. Sharp teeth nipped at Sherlock's skin.

To his own surprise and horror, Sherlock's body arched into the bite, warmth flooded through him even as fear pooled in his stomach. He felt lightheaded, as if _he'd_ been the one who'd been drugged, thoughts fluttering as chaotically and ineffectively as moths trapped in a jar. Jim shifted and Sherlock let out a hiss as their hips ground together, the friction drawing his attention to his own growing, unwelcome state of arousal.

"Get off," Sherlock grated. He couldn't pry Jim off him, so he settled for kicking the wall separating them from Sebastian.

Jim ignored him and slid his tongue along the path of a minor vein in Sherlock's neck. He seemed almost unaware of the detective's protests at this point. Jim was reaching a peak in the rush of his high and he had only barely cared to restrain himself _before_ he'd been drugged. He wriggled and squirmed and giggled as though he were having _fun_ , not at all caring that it was getting very warm in the back of the car and they had so many clothes between them.

The vehicle began to decelerate. There was a slight lurch before it came to a stop, and then the door was opening behind them. They were bathed in light and nearly toppled out of the car. Sebastian, who was now glaring down at them, had pulled them over on the side of the road.

Sherlock reached for the edges of the car and desperately pulled himself out of the back seat. He slid to the ground gracelessly, Jim still manic and wrapped around him. "Do something, get him off of me!" Sherlock pleaded with Sebastian, writhing to try to avoid another bite as Jim drew close to his neck again.

Sebastian did not look happy at all, but even he could see that Jim was out of it. He bent and picked up the little man around the middle, prying him away from Sherlock. "Nooooo…. _nononono_ ," Jim whined and held on as long as he could, spitting and hissing out incoherent threats, something about Seb's mother and new leather on a pair of shoes and bombing the Western world, like he was an animal.

Moran lifted Jim clear off his feet with his arms and legs kicking out furiously. "What did you do to him?" Seb demanded from Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it, the lie on his tongue dying as he reassessed the look Seb was giving him. He scrambled to his feet, putting a bit of distance between himself and the maniac fighting to escape Seb's arms. "I gave him some diamorphine," he admitted, brushing himself off. Sebastian didn't need to know why. "He's not overdosing. He'll be fine."

Jim went slack. His head craned back to meet Sebastian's eye. "You hear the good chemist? Just a bit of _heroin_ to liven up his love life. Now, put me down and I won't skin you aliiiiiiiiiiive." He drew out the last word like his attention got caught on the sound of it and wanted to hear it go on forever. Jim was grinning like a madman and strangely it wasn't all that different from his usual grin.

Seb lowered Moriarty's feet to the ground. Jim straightened himself and ran his hands over the arms of his suit to smooth it out, then apparently decided he liked the feeling because he continued, rubbing his hands up and down and all along his body. "Ooohhhhh….." he moaned.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"He's apparently one of the few that reacts by becoming manic instead of relaxing," Sherlock muttered. "He'll improve in another ten minutes or so." Or so he hoped. It was all well and good for Jim to become fixated on the feel of his own clothing, but Sherlock really didn't want that focus drifting back to him. The entire point had been to divert Jim and Sebastian's attention away from him, not remove Jim's self-restraint regarding his obsession.

"Get back in the car," Seb ordered, presumably to both of them, "we're going home. And I don't care if he rapes you back there, I don't want to hear another word about it. We're not stopping again, you got that?"

Jim turned a wicked smile and glittering eyes up at Sebastian. "There's my good little soldier," he reached up and patted Seb's cheek like the man were a child instead of a towering wall of muscle.

"No." Sherlock's jaw set and he tried to straighten up into something vaguely dignified as Seb and Jim turned to look at him. Straightening, unfortunately, did little to hide his reaction to Jim's unwanted attentions in the car. "I'm not getting back in there with him like this." Not when the choice was between putting up with whatever the smaller man wanted to do, or killing him and being executed by Sebastian once they arrived. He had little doubt that Seb _would_ take revenge if he lost his employer.

Sebastian straightened as well. His shoulders squared, a subtle movement John had also retained from the military, and with the quick grace he'd also learned there, he closed the distance between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock was tall, but Seb was taller. And broader. He got right up in the detective's face stared him down, growling. "You will get in that fucking car, or I will _put_ you there, and _then_ we'll see just how well you can keep him off you without the use of your hands." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Sebastian was taller and heavier than he was, which put him at a disadvantage... but was also not going to expect him to attack with any sort of skill. Sherlock wasn't certain what sort of combat variations were taught in the military, but he was willing to bet that it was something more conventional and with less emphasis on hand-to-hand techniques. The armed forces generally trained people to deal with different types of weaponry, not unarmed opponents.

"No," Sherlock stated again. Seb reached for him and he stepped back, grabbing the other man's limb and pivoting to throw him off-balance.

The motion caught Sebastian by surprise and he was falling forward before he'd had the chance to register what Sherlock had done. Instinct kicked in halfway through, however, and he was rolling with it before he hit the ground. His arm twisted in Sherlock's grip, but his large hand opened and clasped around Sherlock's forearm, locking them together, when he curled in for the tumble. His weight and the momentum of it pulled Sherlock with him.

Sherlock snarled and fought back with all of the skills he'd learned. They rolled and twisted, grappling with each other and trying to find the handhold that would end it. Sherlock nearly had Seb a couple of times, using the man's own force against him and refocusing it on his joints, but the scarred man escaped before any real damage was done to bones or tendons.

They were kicking up quite a cloud of dust along the side of the highway, probably making a scene. Behind them, Jim was cackling and jeering, sounding like he was having the time of his life. Right now, everything was incredibly funny to him.

The fight was called only when Seb managed to get his weight on Sherlock, catching his wrists one by one and holding them to the ground above his head. He sat on Sherlock's chest with his knees digging into his upper arms, preventing upper body movement]. The hold itself looked ridiculous, and Jim, judging from the pitch of his laughter, found it hysterical, but it was effective.

" _Are we done?_ " Seb shouted, not liking the fact that they were doing this out in the open.

Sherlock glared at Sebastian, absolutely furious and unable to do anything about it. Jim's cackling did nothing to assuage his mood. "We're done," he snapped and let his frame go limp. He stayed still when Seb eased off his arms, only moving when the man roughly pulled him back to his feet. Sherlock stumbled as he was pushed back towards the car but made no move to run.

"Shut up," he growled at Jim. The laughter was an added humiliation he didn't want to have to endure - one more reminder of his inadequacy, failure, and how powerless he was in this whole affair.

He was shoved roughly inside. Jim slid in behind him and kept sliding until he was right up to Sherlock's ear. "When you come around, I'll let you hold him down and see how he likes it," he whispered in a warm puff of air.

The door shut behind them and Sebastian reclaimed his seat behind the wheel. The privacy window rolled down between them, and Seb's cold eyes flashed in the mirror before they pulled back on the road.

Sherlock turned in on himself, doing his best to ignore Jim breathing down his neck. He retrieved Eli from the floor where the skull had fallen and held him in his lap as if a bit of bone could ward Jim away. "I'm not going to come around."

Jim simply hummed and stroked a finger across Sherlock's brow. He hooked it into a curl of hair and wound it around and around, then let it spring free. He gained such an immense pleasure from that one motion that he did it again. "You gave me such a big dose," he whispered, lips ghosting over the shell of Sherlock's ear. "And I _know why_." The accusation dripped like honey from his mouth, but by all signs, Jim wasn't upset. Maybe it was the morphine blocking that foul temper of his. Maybe he just wanted Sherlock to know his intentions were transparent.

"Of course you know why," Sherlock replied, trying and failing to repress a shiver. He was so used to people avoiding him, giving him space, that he was acutely aware of every violation of that boundary. Jim laughed quietly in his ear and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, feeling his pulse rising again and unable to do anything to stop it. "I wouldn't have done it had I known how you would react."

" _Of course_ you wouldn't have," Jim imitated Sherlock. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's skin and held, either dazed and coming down from the intensity of the high or his mind was calculating. "But I can feel your pulse. It's rising. And not just because you're afraid." Calculating, then.

Sherlock glared into the empty space in front of him. His fingers tightened around Eli, trying to ground himself and failing. "The human body doesn't always react to stimuli in logical ways. It means nothing."

He wasn't enjoying this. He _wasn't_. Sherlock was beyond uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than for Jim to remove himself from his side. He didn't want to have to think about breathy words in his ear, or teeth on his neck, or-

" _Stop it_ ," Sherlock hissed. He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or the madman snuggled up beside him.

That only got a low chuckle from somewhere deep inside Jim. "I disagree. I think it means you're not quite as afraid of me as you think you are." Jim's lips pulled into a wide smile. "Give yourself some credit, dear. You're much more capable than you're allowing yourself to be with all these…little…hangups…."

_Afraid of him_. "Is that what you think? That it's _you_ I'm afraid of?" Sherlock turned his head, angry grey eyes fixing on Jim. "Not wanting to be forced into situations isn't the same as being afraid of what's at your core."

Jim's smile widened with glee. Immediately he perked up, eyes staring into Sherlock's. "That's music to my ears, darling. So stop being so afraid of what I can _do to you_. I've already done it. That time has passed. Now I need you to put it behind you."

"You haven't done everything you could." Short of murder, which Sherlock was confident Jim wouldn't attempt on him, there were still a handful of things the smaller man could try to do to him. Just because he'd been hurt this far didn't mean he'd hit rock bottom yet. "And no, that's not an invitation to try. You have my curiosity, but I'm hard-pressed to want anything to do with you. I can't delete what's happened. I wouldn't want to delete some of it, even if I could. Don't try to force me into anything else against my will. You won't be happy with the results it gets you."

"Don't be so ordinaaaryyyyy, Sheeeerlock," Jim whined. "Won't you try the green eggs and ham?” He was losing some of the mania of the high, sighing into Sherlock's neck and slouching into his side. He continued to murmur the classic under his breath, following a thread of whimsy. 

"Whining isn't going to get you what you want, either." _God_ , and now he sounded like _Mycroft_ , scolding Jim like he was a wayward brat. Despite his recital of children's literature at present, it would be a grave mistake to forget that he was anything but childlike. "Whatever you want me to do, you'll have to persuade me. Not bribe, not threaten, not blackmail."

Jim giggled. He shifted his legs up on the seat beside him and laid his head down in Sherlock's lap. "Persuade it is, then." He closed his eyes and let the dulling euphoria wash over him with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Do you know how happy I am that you're here?" he asked. "Just ask NATO how much they've heard from me in the past month. Zilch."

Sherlock moved Eli over. He wasn't happy that Jim felt free to lay on him and touch him without giving any thought to his feelings on the matter, but this was more acceptable than what he _had_ been doing. "I have a general idea, given all the trouble to went through to collect me and your fantasy video."

Sherlock wondered what had happened to the child. Jim had abandoned him with the rest of his old persona.

Jim smiled pleasantly, although it looked like he might have been enjoying the memories behind his eyelids. "I wish I could have known you then, you know…. If only I had gotten to you first," he whispered serenely. "What years we've wasted."

"There's no use dwelling on what might have happened." Sherlock realized bitterly that the same bit of advice applied to him. John and everyone from his old life were still alive, but far away and in a city where his name had been painted in blood. If he stayed trapped for too long on this side of the ocean, it would all fade like a dream. He'd never know what might have happened with John and himself, never see how Lestrade might rise in the Met. Never have another cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson. Never have another chance to nettle Mycroft for being an overbearing, stuck up, preening control-freak.

Jim's eyes cracked open. The serene smile didn't fade. "No, there really isn't, is there?" he said. "Not when you're with me now." Sherlock Holmes, his long lost playmate, come back to him again. At that moment, Jim Moriarty was on top of the world. His own world. For what other mattered? 

Sherlock glanced down at the man smiling in his lap. Jim seemed so utterly content at just the thought of Sherlock with him, regardless of any other details. Sherlock couldn't tell whether the drugs were amplifying his happiness or not. "I'm only with you for the moment," Sherlock reminded him. "Like everything else, you'll have to persuade me to stay. No locking me in the flat or sending your watchdog to retrieve me. The more you try to control me, the more you'll fail."

Jim shook his head, still smiling. "You'll stay," he whispered. "I know you will." He turned and curled his body into an even smaller shape than it was, knees bent, arms folded, half his face pressed to the silken fabric of Sherlock's shirt. "Play with me, on your own terms, whatever you need, and then you'll see."

Sherlock considered this; what _did_ he need? Music as an outlet, and that had already been arranged. Mental stimulation, enough that he didn't go mad or try to drown himself in chemicals to stop feeling his brain eating itself in boredom. _John_ , he wanted John and he couldn't have him anymore; not the tea and the quiet presence and the flattery and warm awe and the way he did whatever Sherlock asked because it was Sherlock who was asking. What had been pleasant had turned into a staple he couldn't imagine doing without, just like every other addictive substance that had entered his life.

"You can't give me what I need." Sherlock couldn't imagine Jim in John's place, murmuring praises as they ate takeaway Chinese and watched crap telly.

Jim's smile only dulled a little. But his eyes closed again and he hummed in response. Jim knew what the detective missed most. It wasn't much of a deductive leap. And, right now, Sherlock was right. Jim could not bring John back. There was no place for John Watson in his plans. But Jim knew well that where he himself failed, time would prevail. With his persistence, Sherlock would realize the potential they had together, and then only time could work out the rest.

Sherlock turned to watch the buildings and people rush by outside the window. Jim had as much as admitted that he was correct, and there was nothing more to be said on the matter. They rode in silence as the view outside slowly became more posh, the pedestrians fewer.

Eventually their surroundings became more and more familiar, until they stopped outside of their own towering apartment complex. Seb came around to get the door for them, but Jim didn't move. He kicked at Seb instead, whining. "I'm comfortable! Go away." The lethargic stage was obviously setting in. "Sherlock and I are having a chat," he added, even though they hadn't been 'chatting' in the last ten minutes and Sebastian knew it.

"No, we're not." Sherlock grabbed the violin case and his skull, slowly disentangling himself from Jim's clinging hands as the smaller man tried to keep him from moving. "If you have more to say, you'll have to do it when we're back inside the flat." Sherlock stepped back from the car.

Jim huffed a sigh of frustration, but levered himself up and followed Sherlock. He did a double take when they were out on the sidewalk, furrowing his brow at the tall man. "You'll need a new coat," he muttered, then waved at Moran. "I want to take Sherlock out to Warehouse 3 tonight. Make the appropriate preparations for us, won't you?" He flashed a smile.

Sherlock didn't wait to hear Seb's reply. He was already stalking off towards the elevator in the lobby, ignoring the odd looks garnered by the skull tucked into the crook of his arm. He could hear the footsteps behind him as Jim tried to catch up. Sherlock had just stepped into the lift when Jim slipped in behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to our beta, [Vague_Flirting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vague_flirting/pseuds/vague_flirting)!

"Don't want to know where we're going tonight?" Jim rocked back and forth on his heels. One hand idly smoothed his tie, running down the front of his suit a little longer than necessarily considered decent. He was still enjoying the feel. "Do bring the heroin, won't you?" Jim asked with a faraway look.

"Maybe I'd prefer for it to be a surprise," Sherlock responded coolly. 

Jim had mentioned a warehouse, which could mean anything. The request for the drugs, however, implied that there would be at least one other party there. Despite his current state, Jim wasn't the sort to want to stay in the constant haze of a drug high. Jim also didn't approve of Sherlock using, which meant that he would want to apply it to someone else.

"If I bring it, don't use it all up on frivolities. It was a chore to obtain and I'd prefer not to have to make another trip so soon."

"Oh please. I'll make up for whatever you lose," Jim waved off the concern. "You've given me an idea, and I can't wait to test it." The excitement was breaking through his drug induced barrier of calm in minute ways. The lip with stitches twitched, Jim's movements were somewhat jerky.

A chime sounded and the elevator door opened. Jim and Sherlock moved forward at once.

"You didn't want me to have it in the first place. I find it difficult to believe you'll just _buy me more_ to replace what you use up." Sherlock made a beeline for the stairs. It was silly to admit it, but he felt like his belongings would be safer in his room than they would be if left out in the rest of the apartment.

"Keep your wits about you, and I'll buy you the world!" Jim shouted up the stairs. The little fiend didn't follow though. Instead he trotted off to the other side of their suite, disappearing and returning with a laptop. He let Sherlock go, and plopped down on the couch, instantly engrossed.

Sherlock closed the bedroom door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew very well that the sense of safety was an illusion, but Jim hadn't tried to follow him up the stairs.

The space was relatively barren compared to his bedroom in 221B; it was without even the cold blandness that one found in a hotel, with the decor carefully chosen to be inoffensive and uninteresting. It had blank, unlived-in feel of a new flat, just waiting for someone to move in and make the space their own

Sherlock set Eli on the bedside table and the violin case on the dresser. After a moment's contemplation he picked up the framed skull print. Tools for hanging pictures had been conveniently left on the table.

A few minutes later, the muffled pounding of a hammer could be heard all the way in the living room below.

Sherlock settled the print right above the headboard of the bed. It seemed fitting.

Now that he was unobserved, he spent a few moments exploring the room. It wasn't entirely devoid of belongings; a few shirts, trousers, and blazers were on hangers in the closet. There were two bookcases, one with a small selection of books. Jim had evidently remembered his tastes from his earlier forays at 221B - a smattering of books on chemistry, neurobiology, and psychology were present, along with replacement copies of two of his books on Jack the Ripper and a cheap reprint of Rimbaud's A Season in Hell. Sherlock ran a finger along its spine, wondering where his real copy was.

Eventually he decided that, as long as he was going along with this for the moment, he might as well clean up. He smelled and looked terrible, and he looked absurd with stubble. He selected a few items from the closet and went to shower the grime away.

Sherlock lingered under the hot water, remembering one more reason why living on the streets was awful. Fresh changes of clothes were difficult to come by, hot showers even more so. He'd broken into many a flat to wash himself off when he knew the owners would be away, but it was a great deal of effort for such a small thing.

When he finally stepped out, Sherlock wiped off the mirror and searched for the razors. It was time to get rid of the ridiculous fuzz that was beginning to show.

Shaving didn't take Sherlock very long. The embarrassing wisps of stubble were cleared away without trouble. The new clothing was comfortable in a disconcerting sort of way - Jim had obviously been meticulous in examining all of his belongings. Everything was very close to the sort of choices he would have made for himself in color, fabric, and cut. Jim had even bothered to have them tailored. There was an intensity in the attention to detail that was flattering in its thoughtfulness even as it discomforted. Sherlock felt _kept_.

Sherlock exited the bathroom looking much more like himself. His gaze caught on the closed door to the workroom, the one space he hadn't finished exploring. He crossed the room and turned the handle.

The room was set up as a simple laboratory. Standard equipment was on the center table, with cabinets set on either side of the room and a sink set into one wall. Sherlock spotted a duffel bag that had been dropped in a corner.

Sherlock unzipped it and his suspicion was confirmed. He was greeted by a potent smell and a flash of oatmeal-coloured yarn.  
Sherlock pulled out the jumper. Dampness and the foul smell of river water still clung to it; the bag had been dumped in the workroom and forgotten. Sherlock returned to the bathroom and stuck it in the tub, turning on the hot water and grabbing the soap.

He scrubbed the jumper clean as best he could and draped it over the edge of the stall door to dry. It still looked wrong - wet and empty, like the corpse of a loved one fished from a river. Even cleaned up, it was upsetting.

Downstairs, Jim had been taking a moment to listen wistfully to the hum of running water when the door to the flat opened for Seb, flipping his keys and striding through the walkway until he found Jim in the living room. He glanced up at the stairs, hearing the shower being shut off.

Jim smiled a crooked smile. "Yes, Seb, you caught me. Don't look so uncomfortable."

The soldier tried to loosen his stance and shrug, affecting an air of nonchalance that didn't fool Jim for a second. "They'll be ready for us by tonight," he said, keeping things on business.

Moriarty nodded absently at Seb's words. This was not news to him. If they hadn't been ready, he would have known. Irrelevant discussion only annoyed him, but the feeling never fully made it to the surface, washed out instead by the detached calm still lingering in his system. Jim considered, then began typing, documenting the heroin's effects on himself since injection. It would be a useful comparison.

Seb sat on the arm of the couch, not a very comfortable perch, and listened to Jim type.

"Make yourself useful and bring me a cup of tea."

If Sebastian hadn't known Jim's voice so well, he'd have thought someone else was in the room. Jim didn't move, didn't look up, didn't pause in his work. He'd just gone on ignoring Sebastian. So, without comment, Seb got up and returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup. He set it on the coffee table at Jim's feet, who then went on to ignore it.

"You still think it's a good idea, bringing him here, giving him so much freedom?" Seb asked.

"You overestimate the value I place on life," Jim responded without hesitation.

"Even your own?" The gunman's eyes drifted to the little man on the couch.

The question was met with a slow curl of Jim's split lip. "You underestimate Sherlock."

"You don't think he'll kill you when he has the chance? Or….you don't care?" Seb asked. To anyone but Jim Moriarty, his tone would have been cutting, dismissive.

"Don't you worry," Jim chided, Seb's words sliding off his back like water. "There's still a special place in my black little heart for you, Seb."

The gunman allowed himself to breathe again, but he didn't dare look at Jim.

Sherlock returned to the bedroom and fished through the pockets of his discarded clothing for his needles.

All it took was a couple of minutes. Just a short bit of time and the pain receded, the chaos in his mind separating into strands and neatly tucked away where he could forget them, if only for a little while. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as pleasure washed through him and reality became distant again.

John would disapprove of this, Sherlock knew. But then, John would disapprove of pretty much all of this. There were worse ways to deal with pain, and if John had been present it wouldn't have even been necessary.

Sherlock pocketed his supplies and returned downstairs.

Jim's black eyes snapped up to him. As though what he'd done had been written across his forehead, the little criminal was on his feet and stalking toward him with narrowed eyes. Seb snapped to attention behind them, but let Jim go. He stopped just within Sherlock's space and glared up at the man.

"You have a light beige thread on your sleeve," Jim sniffed as though it were one of the most demeaning accusations he could level at the detective.

"And?" Sherlock replied, staring down at him in challenge. "I should think I'm allowed to interact with my belongings in the rooms you've set aside for me. Including cleaning up what was dumped in my workroom so carelessly." Sherlock's gaze flickered towards Seb for a moment, uncertain whether to be grateful or angry towards the man. Sherlock supposed damaged contents were better than nothing.

"And you're high," Jim scowled. "You've been wallowing." He took a breath and let it out in a short puff of air. Jim was keeping himself in check. He was doing it for Sherlock's sake. When his gaze returned to Sherlock, he'd calmed. He gave a little tilt of his head and brushed a finger along the smooth material beside Sherlock's buttons. "Let's get you a new coat, hm? We've got a few hours to kill and you'll want to be warm tonight."

Fingers on his shirt drew Sherlock's attention back to Jim. The touch wasn't as disturbing as it should have been after the near-disaster of the car ride back. Perhaps the morphine did its job a little too well.

"Fine." Sherlock could concede that he needed a coat. His night on the street without one had been uncomfortable enough that he didn't care to repeat it.

Jim gave him a toothy smile, then turned on his heel. "Seb, get the car ready. We'll be down in five." The gunman nodded and strode out the door without a word. "We'll take a walk around Times Square and see if we can't find you something as…equally impressive as your former Milford Belstaff." He looked Sherlock up and down looking pleased again, all disappointment over Sherlock's homesickness gone from his demeanor.

"That's a tall order. I had custom stitching on the old one." Sherlock watched Jim warily. The smaller man looked eager and hungry again when he should have been at least moderately lethargic. "I'm impressed you feel up to walking. In my experience people usually don't want to move during their first time."

"That's why Seb is getting the car. Anyway, if you're going to live in New York, you're going to walk." Jim paused and considered. "Nevertheless, you've reminded me we'll need a control subject for our experiment tonight. My own reactions, and I can only assume yours as well, to the drug have proven not to be the norm." Jim's phone buzzed in his pocket and he smiled sweetly. "Ah, that'll be the car," he said, making his way toward the elevator. "Tell me, dear, are you set on Belstaff or are you willing to do a bit of window shopping?"

"I'm particular about the style, not the label. We'll look until I find something suitable." Sherlock followed Jim to the lift, ignoring the way his stomach lurched in the descent. "And you're correct about the reactions. Mine are more a matter of experience and tolerance levels. I gave you enough that, unless you have a history I was unaware of, should have laid you out on the sofa with minor audio, visual, and tactile hallucinations to keep you occupied. Or at least made you distracted enough that you didn't care what went on around you."

Jim smiled, pleased with himself. "I can't say that it's worn off. For example, you have no idea how good your shirt feels. But yes, I can ignore the sensations well enough." His eyes flashed with delight as they stepped into the elevator. "Are you saying you're impressed?"

"You've handled it more than simply _well_. I've seen a lot of new experimenters." Sherlock watched the numbers count down on the display above the control panel. "None of them come close. A few became hysterical, but most of them settled down and didn't want to move, becoming fascinated with blank walls and the structure of their own hands and whatever idle thoughts ran through their empty heads. I don't believe you have previous experience, given the attitude you had towards my habit... so either you have an unusually high level of natural resistance or extraordinary willpower to focus despite the dosage you were given. I'm guessing a combination of the two."

Now Jim was grinning. "And this is precisely what I want to show you tonight. Focus. The mind is a muscle, it can be trained and strengthened like any other. But, unlike the body, it has near infinite plasticity. Once you've practiced a degree of focus, it becomes more natural, even under unexpected circumstances." Finally the elevator opened and they were stepping into the lobby. "Look at me, even now I'm excited. I can barely wait to discuss these things with you."

Sherlock gave Jim an amused look despite himself. It wasn't that he had forgotten who and what Jim was, but that knowledge was separate from his current observations. The smaller man really was childlike in some ways. He had all the enthusiastic mania he'd possessed when pretending to be Richard, but without the obnoxious plastic overtone. He radiated excitement, delicate eyebrows arched in pleasure and a glitter in his dark eyes.

"So discuss," Sherlock replied.

Jim didn't take his eyes off Sherlock as he walked. "Tibetan monks have been practicing these techniques for thousands of years. Even now the Dalai Lama gives seminars linking meditative practices to the phenomenon of neuroplasticity. You and I were born with certain traits, mental acuity above the norm, shall we say, yet even the ordinary human brain, with the proper experiences and directed mobilization of thought can practice new ways of thinking. Literally, one can restructure their own mind. Concentration, conscious awareness, and practice strengthen and expand our ability to rewire the pathways of our minds, even long after childhood. Say, for example, the ability to filter out foreign emotions created by chemical stimulants or depressants."

Sherlock considered this. "It's possible to rewire pathways, yes. Some of that has been explored in studies on human cognition, mapping the way repetitive ways of thinking change the internal structures of the brain. One would think there would still be hard limits in what one could accomplish." Breaking people out of debilitating thought-patterns wasn't really on the same level as what Jim was suggesting.

"But you and I already have a head start," Jim flashed him a grin as they got in the car Seb had waiting for them. "And if we haven't yet discovered those limits, or if we believe we already have, who's to say they can't be broken?" This is perhaps what gave Jim hope that even Sherlock, with the agony of being ripped from his previous life and the few people he'd left behind, could, with enough conscious energy and focus, reconstruct himself. And, do so without losing the essence of himself.

"Where to, boss?" Seb asked.

"Start at Times Square, we'll move on from there," Jim responded quickly and continued without missing a beat in the conversation. "Even without breaching the known limits, this has a very immediate and practical application: resistance to outside afflictions of the body which would otherwise cripple function of the mind. And one long term: the ability to monitor and regulate one's internal state of being."

Sherlock's mental functions were not dulled to the point that he missed Jim's meaning. "Limiting nerve feedback," he muttered. "Pain control and emotional restructuring." Nervous system responses could be suppressed or dulled with the assistance of chemicals, but Sherlock doubted that simply thinking very hard about not feeling something would make that wish a reality.

Jim turned and flicked his ear, catching the note of disbelief. "Yes, in a nutshell. It would depend, of course, on a subject's history of repetition and mental prowess," Jim conceded. "But have no doubt that it can be done."

They were making progress down Madison Avenue, passing out of the posh neighborhoods and into upscale retail areas. Boutiques, businesses, and pedestrians crowded all around them.

"We'll see." Sherlock glanced at Jim out of the corner of his eye, wondering exactly what the pursuit of Jim's theory would require. He wouldn't complain if he was asked to subject the smaller man to pain just so he could test out his technique. Pain for pain seemed only fair, and Sherlock wasn't above a bit of petty revenge.

The car pulled over and let them out near Time's Square, the doors opening to a sea of consumerism punctuated in electric lights and video screens.

"What a beautiful array of meaningless distraction," Jim commented on the scenery as they stepped out. But his expression and demeanor were pleasant enough. Sebastian left with the car once they were firmly on the ground. He or another driver would return when Jim called.

As they walked, they passed hecklers, yoga practitioners, and a variety of street musicians along with the crowd of everyday foot traffic. Jim seemed completely at home in the sweeping momentum of the crowd. The only indication the drug still had him in its hold was the way he held himself, his body loose and willing to be pulled to and fro at the leisure of the traffic.

Sherlock led the way, eyes sharp and searching. He ignored the pedestrians around them as best he could, concentrating on finding a store that looked promising for what he wanted. He glanced back a few times to be certain Jim was following; he flowed so easily with the crowd that it seemed possible he'd get carried away.

Sherlock was reminded, oddly enough, of the way he used to arrive at his next destination only to find that John had failed to keep up, not only with his deductions, but with him physically. Misplaced affection blossomed in one corner of Sherlock's mind and he reached behind him. His fingers found Jim's easily.

Jim's eyes widened minutely, his smile brightened, and he skipped to match Sherlock's pace. Instantly he lost the crowd and became one with Sherlock's inertia, allowing himself to be pulled along just behind the detective. His fingers wound around Sherlock's long, cold ones in return and a strange sound of delight escaped his throat. Sherlock, who never touched anyone willingly, was holding his hand, pulling him along. Sherlock was keeping them together, making sure he didn't lose Jim. 

Sherlock heard the sound amidst the background noise of the crowd and glanced backward.

Jim looked ecstatic, flushed and pressed in close behind him. He couldn't be more starry-eyed if he tried. It was endearing and disturbing at the same time, an echo of someone else in Jim's body. As much as Sherlock knew, _knew_ that Jim and John were very different creatures, he smiled all the same.

"Let's try those two over there." Sherlock pointed to a couple of shops across the way, both boasting high-end men's clothing.

Jim looked up quick, nodded, finding the stores acceptable, and trotted along after him. They were greeted with help as soon as they stepped inside. Jim, for once, let Sherlock work by himself. He enjoyed watching the detective look, inspect item after item and come to his conclusions usually very quickly.

Sherlock made short work of the two stores, cutting off the sales clerks with clipped tones whenever they tried to persuade him towards unwanted purchases. He knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn't settle for anything less. Black coats were shown and quickly rejected due to cut, features, or length. As soon as Sherlock was certain the store had nothing for him he left without another word, Jim trailing along behind him as they walked to the next shop that caught his eye.

After the seventh attempt, Sherlock sighed. "...I want to look at Belstaff."

Jim punched something in his phone and they waited less than five minutes for a car to arrive. This time Sebastian was gone from the wheel, but a middle aged serviceman who was nothing less than professional. He greeted Jim, who he seemed to believe was someone named Mr. Brown, and they were off again, meandering through traffic down to Madison Ave and 68th St.

It didn't take long to reach the store by car. A handful of minutes later they were strolling through the doors. Displays showed off the varieties of goods Belstaff made - bags and boots scattered among the racks of clothing, all set in a theme of black and gold.

Sherlock quickly spotted exactly what he wanted. He pulled a black greatcoat from one of the racks, turning it over to study it. It wasn't the same fabric as his old one, but it was similar in construction. The collar was acceptable, the half-belt in the back kept the silhouette trim, it had functional pockets, and it was long enough for his taste. He could have alterations done to it later.

"This one," he informed Jim. "This is the one I want."

Jim turned and snapped his fingers over his head, which might have been a little over the top, but it got the attention of the store managers they'd shooed away the moment upon entering. "Good choice," Jim agreed, inspecting the long vent in the back, the shoulder panels, the high collar, while their attendant rushed over. His lips curled into an impish smile at Sherlock. "It'll look good on you."

"I wouldn't have chosen it if it didn't." Sherlock let the clerk take it out of his hands, following him slowly back to the registers.

Sherlock had had lessons early on in how to dress. Lectures, really. He'd always rebelled against the uniform that had been thrust at him, flaunting every broken rule and shocking divergence from expectations and norms. Or at least as much as he'd been able to get away with. Still, fragments of the lessons had stuck, if not the spirit.

Sherlock shook his head as the attendant offered to wrap the coat. He accepted it back and put it on, letting Jim handle the bill.

Once they were free of the clerks and back on the street, Jim stopped to admire Sherlock in his new coat. "Very nice. And for all its flair, you'll at least be warm enough should you see fit to spend another night out on the town." Their car came around the street corner once more, uncannily knowing they'd finished.

"Behave yourself and I won't have to," Sherlock countered, watching the car pull up in front of them. He opened the door and got in.

Sherlock realized belatedly that it was true; he was still angry and bitter at Jim, none of which had faded from his gestures of hospitality and generosity, but he had no desire to live on the streets again unless he was pushed to the limits of what he could accept. As long as Jim let him be, respected the privacy of the rooms he'd been given, and didn't try to trap him in the flat, Sherlock would return there to sleep. For the moment, at least.

They were seated comfortably for no more than thirty seconds before Jim tapped the screen and asked the driver to make a detour. "There's just one more place I want to stop before we're finished," he said with a grin. "How's your sweet tooth?" Jim asked for an address on 3rd and before long they were pulling to a stop in front of one of the most unique stores New York had to offer, Dylan's Candy Bar.

Their driver dropped them in front of a mess of rainbows, ice cream cones, and otherwise explosion of color decorating the corner storefront. Jim beamed.

The riotous color was distracting. The shop was full of dispenser bins like an old-fashioned candy store, but it couldn't be mistaken for anything but modern. Classic candy that Sherlock had thought wasn't even being produced anymore was crowded right next to new concoctions and unusual novelties.

Sherlock was about to protest that he really wasn't much for this sort of thing when one of the displays caught his eye. Tubes labeled "time capsules" were propped up in sets, with several decades represented. His interest piqued, Sherlock went to investigate.

Jim strolled in after him and, shoulders back and chest out, surveying the shelves upon shelves of candies, declared their shopping spree a success. Then he scampered off to the lollipops.

The two men were easily the most unusual customers in the store, somberly and expensively dressed as they were amid the more casual patrons. When Jim returned to Sherlock's side, he'd found himself an assorted bag of chocolates, gummies, truffles, and lollipops, and also, one smaller tin clutched to his vest comprehensively labeled 'HARD CANDY’.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in surprise at Jim's rampant sweet tooth. "Interested in more than gum, I take it." Sherlock had never caught him with any other edibles in his pocket, but maybe it was a private indulgence.

Sherlock grabbed one of the canisters from the display beside him; it was clearly labeled '80's Candy Capsule'. "This is all I want. I'm not really one for sweets anymore, but I am still fond of things from when I was younger." The container was skewed to an American consumer instead of a British one, so it would be lacking in some of the treats he remembered, but it still had a pull of nostalgia to it.

Jim had the put upon decency to act embarrassed, but it didn't last more than a moment. His head tilted as though to read the label on the item in Sherlock's hand and the side of Jim's mouth pulled up into a half grin. "Care to take a trip back in time?" he asked as they made their way to the register. 

"Depends on what's involved," Sherlock replied. An idea hit him as they passed another bin full of glittering gold, and he impulsively grabbed a bag of candy doubloons and added them to Jim's cache. "I'm not keen on some parts of my past, but there are certain things I've never gotten tired of indulging in."

Jim cocked his head and looked at Sherlock curiously. He set them between the tin and the lollipops and looked at them in puzzlement while the cashier waited awkwardly for her customers to acknowledge her greeting. "Gold coins?" He raised an eyebrow. The gears behind his eyes could almost be seen as they turned rapidly, following one thread of Sherlock-related data and then picking up another.

"It wasn't my original ambition to be a detective." Sherlock wasn't exactly certain why he was telling Jim this. It was harmless enough, but rather... personal. Only Mycroft and his now-deceased parents had known about his childhood fantasy. "I was completely set upon being a pirate. Until I was informed that it was no longer possible to pillage the Caribbean in a wooden galleon and that it was unacceptable for me to sully the family name by becoming a common sea rat."

It was like the light of dawn came upon Jim's face. He turned to Sherlock, completely ignoring the girl who was now waving ahead the next customers in line, and held his hands over the tall man's arms like he wanted to touch, but remembered, for once, that Sherlock wouldn't like it. His face pulled itself into a smile more full, more open than Sherlock had ever witnessed upon Jim Moriarty, although unfortunately it looked not the least bit natural on his usually sleek countenance. "Too bad for them. You can be a pirate yet! Really. Get more of those. If you want to indulge, then let us truly _indulge_."

Sherlock shook his head in amusement but did as Jim suggested, grabbing a few more bags of the chocolate coins. He had no idea what Jim had in mind. He could hardly arrange to transport them back to the 1500s. Modern piracy just wasn't the same - invariably it dealt either with digital theft or steel motorboats. Sherlock was enamored with the romanticized period that, arguably, had never really existed.

Jim went from ecstatic to nearly murderous when he turned back to the clerk and saw that someone had taken their place in line. The drug in his system must have been tapering off. Fortunately for the young woman's sake, the customer in their place was just leaving. "Will that be all?" she asked and began scanning their items, politely ignoring the scene they had been making.

"Yes indeedy," Jim said sweetly and bared his teeth at her.

Her smile fell and in a flash she bagged their purchases, swiped Jim's card, and they were on their way.

The car was waiting for them as they exited the colorful shop. If Sebastian was surprised by the massive amounts of sugar Jim had purchased, he did an admirable job of not showing it.

Sherlock slid into his seat and eyed their purchases. He dug out the time capsule he'd selected and opened it, peering inside. He'd known better than to expect that the shop had put retro British candy inside, but he was still vaguely disappointed.

"Missing the Wham Bars?" Jim asked, peering over his shoulder.

Sebastian pulled ahead, and they were once again submerged in traffic. "Detour, Seb!" Jim called from the back, "We'll be visiting the warehouse tomorrow. Sherlock's given me a brilliant idea that I'd rather us not pass up. Take us down to NoHo. We need to find a costume shop." Jim grinned and spread himself over the backseat in elation.

Seb's eyes flicked back to them in the mirror, clearly second guessing the order, but he turned the car around and began the steady drive south.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, this story is back. For several chapters more at least. I'm not sure it'll ever truly be finished, but I wanted to add what we have because we did have a lot more. I hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> Also, what a chapter to return on. Haha, oh man, please take the er, 'language' in this chapter with a grain of salt. I promise we're not normally this silly. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.

Jim had just gained Sherlock's undivided attention. His mind was skittering, picking up and examining a number of possibilities. "What exactly do you have in mind?" he asked, silently cursing himself after the question. The heroin had dulled his control just enough that he hadn't been able to suppress the wistful undertone in his voice. Playing pirates had always been one of his favorite games throughout childhood and something that he missed bitterly.

Jim turned heavy lidded, crafty eyes on the detective. "Nothing, I'm sure, that a scoundrel of the sea would disparage." He smiled wickedly and then turned his gaze back to the road. "You would be captain, I presume. But, do tell me, dear Sherlock, in these fantasies of pillaging on the high seas, just who was your most worthy opponent?"

"The First Sea Lord of the Royal Navy," Sherlock answered without hesitation. "My brother used to dress the part. I begged my parents for fencing lessons, and he took them with me, just so I'd have someone to duel to the death." Sherlock's features shuttered for a moment; he'd been more than disappointed when Mycroft had stopped playing games with him and insisted he grow up. He'd been furious. It had been the first of a number of events that stung as personal betrayals and rejection.

Jim made a pained expression, as though the mere thought hurt to think. "There's no way that I will by anything of that sort. No, I'm afraid you're just going to have to suffer another pirate lord. But I warn you, I will be nothing less than a king of outlaws. I will, however, accept a challenge for the rank by duel." He raised his brows unconcernedly and found an imperfection in a fingernail, but the hint of glee remained around the corners of his lips.

Again, Sebastian glanced in the mirror, but they were nearing their destination. In one block between Broadway and 4th St were situated two well known costume shops. It would be a challenge to find anything on par with their tastes on short notice, but it would be well worth the effort.

Sherlock's eyes lit up in challenge. "There can only be one King," he purred, "and you cannot hope to defeat me. I'll stripe your hide with the flat of my blade until you beg for the mercy of the plank." How quickly, how easily the sea jargon came back, dusted off from its shelf and flowing off Sherlock's tongue. "And perhaps I'll deny you. I'll make you swab the deck and sit in attendance as I count all the treasure I'll have stolen from you."

"Get your palm and needle and I'll sew you back up when I'm done with you," Jim countered, rising to the occasion. "I'll never beg for your mercy, scoundrel. We shall see who the real sea dogs are before the day is done." His lips rose in a snarl that might have been inspired more by anticipation than frustration. 

A not so subtle cough came from the front of the car. "Costumes, _sirs_?" They were parked in front of a large store proclaiming itself to be New York Costumes.

"Ah, yes. It'd be a shame to send you to Davy Jones looking anything but your finest." Sherlock gave Jim a crooked smile as he opened the door and slid out. He was confident that he could win this game. "Choose your garb and your weapons, and we'll see who gets to earn the right to be King."

"Challenge accepted," Jim huffed with his nose in the air. Together they strode into the costume emporium, but immediately split to hunt down their gear. Jim headed straight for the back, knowing there was likely to be a rental section of finer materials for theaters and other professionals. He was in luck. Rows of full costumes were laid out on hangers in a room in the back and separated from the rest of the store. He ducked under a heavy set of ropes and stanchions and began perusing the goods.

It grated on Sherlock to have to follow Jim's lead, but the back _was_ where all the quality items were kept. They split up among the rows, hands darting out to catch at sleeves and hangers as each of them tried to find something to suit their taste.

Sherlock finally latched onto something acceptable: an ivory linen shirt with a deep crimson, double breasted brocade vest and darker, matching silk sash. Black knee breeches were found nearby, as was a suitable black overcoat trimmed with black braid work and silver metal buttons. Sherlock gathered up his choices and began hunting for boots. It was uncertain whether this shop would actually carry safety-capped fencing swords, but he kept an eye out for stage weaponry all the same.

Jim was rather particular about his costume choices. Methodically, he moved through rack after rack, item by item, eyes dancing around the room every other minute for something to catch his attention. He turned up his nose at almost everything he touched until he found a deep midnight blue vest with embedded green jewels inlaid in its flourishes and a matching coat of an even deeper blue. A heavy baldric with a wide buckle to be worn over the shoulder would make for a convenient breastplate. He quickly finished the ensemble with a loose cotton undershirt, a dark green patterned sash, and black trousers, then went to see how Sherlock was making progress.

Sherlock had managed to find decent enough boots and was pleasantly surprised that the store _did_ carry prop weapons. The belt, frog, and saber he'd selected weren't the best quality by a swordsman's standards, but they hadn't been made with true fencing in mind. Even though they were only made for staged fights, the metal would hold up well.

Sherlock turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. His gaze flickered over Jim's choices, pausing as he took in the glitter of gems on the vest. "Choose your blade wisely, but know that you're going to lose your jewels no matter what you pick."

Jim's eyes dropped to the foil in Sherlock's hands and he curled his stitched lip. "Don't bother with these trifles. I have a _much_ better selection back at the hideaway." And then something behind Sherlock caught his eye because he stopped and his eyes glittered with mirth. Jim stalked to the other side of the displays and plucked a picture perfect replica of St. Edward's Crown and the Sovereign's Sceptre from their respective stands. Jim popped the crown upon his head and twirled the sceptre between his fingers. "And these, for the sake of convenience, will be the victor's trophy."

Sherlock actually laughed at the spectacle Jim made, voice deep and warm as he watched Jim strike a regal pose. The game of it all, the theatricality... was familiar. Welcome. A needed distraction after all the pain that been unraveling him. At the moment, nothing existed but the game, and Jim was nothing more or less than friendly competition.

"Fair enough. I'd prefer better swords anyways. What they've got are only good for a crude singlestick match, and even that might chip them."

Jim grinned, all teeth and jewels. "That'll never do." With a flourish and a chuckle, he found himself a King's Cape and a pair of boots and was striding off to the register, already wearing half the costume.

It was a little old man who took their items, ninety percent likely the store's owner as he took a look at Jim and Sherlock and their giddiness and gave them a knowing smile. "You two look like you're out to have a bit of fun tonight," he commented as he rang up their purchases.

Jim just cocked his head slyly and replied, "You have no idea."

Sherlock paused at the old man's comment, taking in the look he was giving the two of them, the slightly suggestive angle of one eyebrow that spoke of shared secrets, the twinkle in his eye that said he'd seen this sort of thing many times before.

Sherlock's features twisted into a frown as he glanced between Jim and the owner. "Not that sort of fun," he informed Jim, hoping that it was perfectly clear where he _wouldn't_ allow this to go. "...I'm not his date," he added lamely. The old man really wasn't bagging their purchases quickly enough.

Jim gave no outward indication whether he'd heard or not. He simply grabbed his bags and sauntered out of the store without a backward glance, or further comment on the subject. It was possible his counter to the old man's innuendo had been perfectly nonsexual. After all, the man had no idea what Jim normally got up to with the authentic weaponry he suggested they use instead of the shop's props. It was difficult to tell with Jim. The insinuations of sex and violence were so closely related behind those black eyes.

Sherlock picked up his share of the purchases and followed. Trailing along behind someone else, rather than leading, was getting tiring.

He ignored the look Sebastian gave them as they returned to the car. "Do you even know how to use a sword?" he asked Jim, climbing into the back seat after him. Between the candy and the costumes, things were getting crowded.

Jim flashed his teeth. "You'll soon find out." He then flopped down across the leather seats and rolled his head back to stare at Sherlock, dancing one of the chocolate doubloons across his knuckles. He kicked up his feet and shouted at Sebastian. "Take us home!" 

Sherlock supposed he would. If Moriarty was bluffing, this game was going to turn out very poorly for him indeed. Poor fencers would at least move in predictable patterns. If he had little idea how to use a sword and they played with live blades it was a very real possibility that Jim would move at the wrong time and get severely injured.

Sherlock leaned back and relaxed. It really wasn't his problem.

Sebastian looked like he was steeling himself for whatever was to come as they pulled back out onto the road and made their way back up to the east side of Central Park. The car was unusually silent as they travelled. Jim was tapping his foot and looking eagerly out the window. He was a bundle of suppressed energy. He grabbed up as many bags of candy and costumes as he could and bolted out the door the moment Seb pulled up in front of their building. "Don't dawdle now!" he called back. Sherlock and Moran were left to follow as the doorman, recognizing Jim, tried to help.

"Does he know how to fence?" Sherlock asked Moran once they were out of earshot. He bundled together the remaining bags as Jim disappeared inside the complex with the doorman. "I don't mean whether he's injured people with a blade before. I need to know if he's had any training at all."

Moran turned in the driver's seat to look at Sherlock. "Hardly," the ex soldier deadpanned. "I doubt he could fence himself out of a cardboard box. And yes, you can tell him I said that." He paused. "He does, however, know how to wield a blade." Sebastian looked like he was recalling from firsthand observation.

Outside, Jim had successfully shrugged off the doorman, who was now heading in their direction and intent on helping _someone_ in their party, and hastened inside. 

"You're going to want to be close by, then." Sherlock watched the doorman approach, mouth setting in a thoughtful line. "It's easier to have accidents with those who are completely untrained. If he insists on fighting me, you may have some patching up to do."

The doorman was too close now, reaching out to try to assist him. Sherlock darted around him and scurried towards the door, ignoring the man's entreaties. He didn't want any company in the elevator.

That left Moran to take the brunt of it, but unlike Jim and Sherlock, he wasn't adverse to dealing with the ordinary help. The man ended up with the rest of their packages on the curb while Sebastian drove off to park the car.

The elevator's sleek doors were just closing as Sherlock darted inside. Jim already leaned against the wail with a smug smile playing around his lips. The cultivated pose was thrown off a bit by the rainbow assortment under his arms and the crown atop his head.

"Still keen on dueling for that crown?" Sherlock asked. "This is your chance to back down before I stripe you with bruises, or worse. I'm quite good." He eyed Jim thoughtfully. "Injuries aside, I may just return the favor and take you prisoner. You don't seem the type to gladly suffer humiliation and captivity."

Risky as it was, Sherlock was rather hoping Jim still wanted to fight. Music was useful for purging his emotions, but physically taking his feelings out on Jim had been satisfying in a whole other way. At least, it had been before the situation in the kitchen had turned uncomfortable for a variety of reasons.

Jim giggled with a strange, squeaky pitch and his black eyes stared up at Sherlock unperturbed. "And pass up this opportunity? _Never._ I don't care how good you think you are," Jim drawled, "we're dueling for the crown. And Sebastian stays below." He surveyed Sherlock with the full intensity of his attention. It appeared the heroin had finally worn off. Only a light sheen of sweat on Jim's brow indicated that it had left him feeling the effects of its loss. 

Sherlock watched him for a long moment, a predatory smile finally sliding into place. "Just remember I gave you a chance to back out and you turned it down." The lift chimed, doors sliding open and depositing them on their floor. Sherlock stepped out and dropped his burdens on the floor. "I'll try not to hurt you _too_ badly, but no guarantees."

Jim did very much the same, his bags finding their way to a section of the sofa before he bounced down onto it himself and spread them out.

They had to wait for Sebastian to return with the rest, but fortunately he brought with him a selection of foils. Unless they had multiple rooms in this building, they must have been stored in his own. Some were modern, lightweight, with blunted tips, but he had two that might have been truly handed down from the 18th Century. They were heavier and significantly missing the folded tip.

Jim jumped to his feet the moment he saw them, eyes gleaming with delight.

Sherlock wandered closer to inspect the assortment. The quality was, as promised, much higher than the stage swords had been. Sherlock picked up each in turn, testing the weight and balance, how the hilt fit into his palm. What he chose would depend on whether Jim picked a heavier or a lighter sword; too much of a weight difference would mean greater difficulty in keeping up with parries and thrusts.

Jim's fingers danced in the air above the blades. He plucked out the lighter of the two period pieces, holding it up in his hand. His smile widened. "Italian, 1820. This will do." He did not seem to care that these were the more dangerous of the lot.

The tension in Moran's shoulders was noticeable, but he remained silent and kept his eyes focused on the remaining swords. 

Sherlock picked the remaining historical weapon, giving it a few test swings. It was heavier than the other, but not overmuch. More important, it would parry Jim's blade without snapping. The live steel at the tip would, however, make it significantly more difficult to avoid injuring the smaller man.

Sherlock felt up to the challenge. Besides, he felt Jim deserved whatever he got.

"Right. Each of us will have sufficient time to change, then meet back here to begin. Neither of us will attempt to ambush the other."

"Fair play and all," Jim commented with a suspiciously sly air, but he nodded all the same. "Leave us, Sebastian. If we need you, we'll call."

The colonel's frown deepened and his eyes moved to Jim. "I won't be far," he said grudgingly after a moment's hesitation.

"See that you're far enough," Jim countered without sparing Moran a glance to take his eyes off the blade. With that, Moran packed up the rest of the foils in the cloth he'd had them tucked in and gave a mocking salute to Sherlock on his way out.

Jim's eyes snapped up the moment they heard the door shut. "Now. Game's on." He grabbed his clothing and a tin of sweets and was off to the other side of the apartment in a flash.

Sherlock ignored his share of the candy, snatching up the bags containing his costume pieces and dashing up the stairs to his room. He'd barely shut the door before he started shedding clothing like mad. He wasn't even really certain why he was doing this; his mind was a tangle of emotions, the joy of getting to play a beloved childhood game made more realistic... tempered with the simmering anger he still had for Moriarty.

Sherlock tugged his new clothing into place in record time. The costume did what it was supposed to. When Sherlock shrugged into the overcoat he was no longer thinking about _why_. He was completely, utterly focused. This was _his_ game, _his_ fantasy. Jim had challenged him, and he was not going to win in this.

Sword in hand, Sherlock opened his door and descended to the living room, his progress marked by the heavy thump of boots on stairs.

As if on cue, Jim emerged from the other side of the darkened apartment like a thing made of oil. The lights had been dimmed to a soft orange glow, casting shadows everywhere. With his dark longcoat and attire, his face and chest seemed to float forward until he stepped into a point of light. He was wearing a large tricorn with so much plumage it looked like it might fly away on its own. He was sucking a sweet and, flauntingly, stabbed the point of his sword into the floor and rested his weight on it, inviting Sherlock to approach.

"The dastardly baron of Neptune's shores himself, Sherlock Holmes," Jim greeted with a flash of white teeth and a voice sickly sweet. "We meet at last."

"James Moriarty," Sherlock drawled, gliding closer with a rolling gait. He stopped a few feet before the shorter man, settling a hand over his sword hilt, comfortable and radiating confidence. "Son of an Irish wench and the Devil himself. Here before me, bold as brass." Sherlock's chin raised, the dim lighting casting his face into harsh angles and pools of shadow as he examined Jim and, with a dismissive smirk, found him wanting. "You know better than to encroach on my domain. I rule these waters, and there's a price to be paid for such insolence."

Jim pulled his weight off the sword and plucked it from the soft oak floor. He drew closer, blade lowered, not a threat, stepping into Sherlock's space and tilting his head up to stare into the taller man's eyes. "That's a fine swagger you have. Not willing to tolerate even a little encroachment? Not even for the sake of another black hearted knave like myself?" Jim's slim brows rose. "No? On your head be it!" he shouted and drew back suddenly with a flash of the blade at Sherlock's side.

"Nay!" Sherlock roared, lips drawing back into a feral grin as he smoothly drew his sword and parried the attack. "Buccaneers such as us do not share."

Sherlock circled, trying to flank Jim. Every few seconds one of them would swing or thrust, testing the other's defenses. "I'll have your heart and head on a platter. _After_ I've had a bit of fun with ye. Maybe some time as a cabin boy, swabbing decks and fetching for your betters, will teach you a little humility."

Jim's face split, grinning like a madman as their fight escalated. "I'll send you off to Fiddler's Green you lily livered scallywag. You've ne'er seen the like of me before!" He crowed as he jumped onto and then over the sofa like a wild little animal, barely escaping the thrust of Sherlock's sword. He about faced without a moment's hesitation, swinging wildly and running around the taller duelist.

Sherlock was having increasing amounts of trouble dealing with Jim's attacks. Moriarty obviously had no training, fighting with the same careless nonchalance as a manic child might with a wooden sword. Sherlock quickened his footwork to deal with Jim's rapid shifting of positions. The smaller man's wide swings left him particularly vulnerable; Sherlock took advantage of just such an attack. He parried with force, throwing Jim off-balance for a split second, and twisted his wrist. Sherlock's sword tip sliced a neat cut through the shoulder seam of Moriarty's longcoat.

"You'll be in tatters long afore you manage t'touch me!" Sherlock crowed, leaping backwards as Jim responded with force.

"Oh you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Jim teased and jumped and ran at Sherlock, perpetuating his backward motion. "Want to see me with naught an' nothin', taken down a peg. Iss'at it?" He swung upward with his sword in a wide arc, but he had an obvious tell with the long motion. The only compensation he made was to grab a tin tray off the nearby table and, using it as a shield, run straight into Sherlock.

Sherlock stumbled slightly before sweeping his foot under Jim's ankle. The smaller man lost his balance, enough for Sherlock to pivot them and shove Jim backwards. He snarled.

"More'n a peg, darlin' boy. I'll see ye beggin' fer mercy, _weepin'_ fer a chance to meet Davey Jones and get respite. Yer ship, yer crew, yer treasures, all mine, and ye bound 'n' shiverin' at me feet, subject to m'every whim." Blades flashed once more, each strike ringing through the open space as metal met metal. "I'll pattern yer pretty skin with spots 'til th' crewmen can't tell if ye be a leopard or full o' th' pox."

"You'll be havin' to get a wee bit more creative than tha' to make me _beg_ ," Jim cackled and winked. "Pain of ol' Jones' treasure chest don't do it for me no more." Little beads of sweat were running down their cheeks as they carried on. Sherlock was obviously the better swordsman, but somehow Jim was improvising just barely enough to get by using anything he could, furniture, the pillars in the room, throw pillows and cushions, and anything else he could get his hands on, to deter Sherlock's movement.

Sherlock was stalking him across the room like a predator, teeth bared in frustration every time Jim threw up a barrier or diversion to try to block his movement. "And what's yer deepest fear, eh?" he purred, chasing Jim in circles around one of the sofas. "You think you can tolerate a little pain. Maybe I tie you up and leave you in a box. Let the boredom eat your mind for a bit. Would that make ye scream?"

"Oh noooo, no, _no_ ," Jim sang in a melodious, taunting voice. "You'll ne'er suss out me greatest nightmares. Not while ye're here. I _am_ fear!" Jim shouted. He'd gone practically mad on the high of their fight. His face was screwed up into something nearly unrecognizable, but he was _loving_ it. Sherlock wanted to poke holes in him, but he just wanted to thrash and tumble and grab Sherlock and _play_ and have it never end. Finally he ended his retreat and rounded on the other man.

Sherlock was tall. Even bent and with limbs spread for balance, he loomed. The burning coldness in his eyes hinted of years of pain and experiences. Yet, in spite of these affectations, for that is what they seemed to be in the moment the flat turned into the flush deck of a buccaneer ship, the Sherlock of decades past shone through like a beacon of light.

Jim was dazzled by it, high on it. He twisted and turned and bathed in it. He threw himself and his blade at Sherlock to continue their endless chase from room to room.

Sherlock grinned, his full attention fixed on Jim. Joy meshed with anger as he found himself caught between fantasy and reality. Sherlock was no longer certain whether he wanted to beat Jim and hurt him out of revenge, or because that was part of the game and a pleasurable end in itself. The swordplay was like second nature; Sherlock was paying more attention to the brown eyes fixed on him in ecstacy than he was to the flash of the blades.

"No, yer not fear. You'll soon be learnin' it," Sherlock growled. It was time to finish toying with him. He redoubled his attacks, slowly backing Jim into a corner. Every time Jim's defenses slipped, Sherlock darted in with the flat of his blade in a series of punishing smacks. "I've got all th' time in the world to unravel ye until I know every dark crevace in yer mind. I'll pull out all yer secrets, one by one, and feed ye nightmares. I'll enjoy takin' ye apart."

One clever wrist movement and Jim was disarmed. The blade flew across the room and skewered a throw pillow. Sherlock's hand darted in and wrapped around Jim's throat, pressing him against the wall.

Jim's teeth bared and flashed, but laughter bubbled up from his throat. Until it was cut off by the hardening pressure of Sherlock's grip. "Please, _please do,_ " Jim spluttered, losing more breath with each syllable but forcing the words out anyway. Something was clicking inside him, like the ticking countdown of a time bomb. He seemed too pleased with the way Sherlock was holding him. His hands grasped Sherlock's forearm, fingers flexing and digging into white skin, holding firmly but not fighting.

Sherlock considered Jim coldly for a moment, sword shifting in his hand and eyes wild. An idea sparked and caused Sherlock's grin to widen.

"I'm the Pirate King," he whispered, fingers tightening. He lifted Jim and threw them both to the floor. "Hold still," Sherlock cautioned with a hiss, then raised his sword and began to cut Jim's clothes to pieces.

With a hitch in his breath Jim, for once, complied. His mouth fell open a little as he watched Sherlock work. He barely breathed for fear of breaking the spell. His hat fell off and toppled to the floor beside him, its plumage flopping about terribly from the beating it had taken. "And what be your desire, ye scurvy highness?" Jim whispered.

"For ye to learn yer place, ye stinkin' bilge rat." Sherlock flipped Jim over onto his stomach, pulling at the ruined clothing until it came away in shreds, leaving Jim's torso bare. He selected one of the larger strips of cloth, grabbing Jim's hands and roughly binding them behind his back. That accomplished, he leaned down, breath tickling Jim's ear. "None o' yer crew be goin' to save ye. Yer mine now, to do with as I be pleasin'. I suggest ye begin with apologies for darin' to raise hand 'n' voice 'gainst me, 'less you want t'be earnin' the Black Spot."

Sherlock moved back and dragged Jim to his knees.

Jim growled deep in the back of his throat. His lips pulled back in a grimace that looked suspiciously more like a grin. He twisted his torso, wrenching against Sherlock's hands in a show of trying to get away. He didn't get far before Sherlock's strong fingers caught him again, wrenching him back. Jim tossed his head back and spoke to Sherlock over his shoulder. "Put me under yer finest torture. Ye'll ne'er send me to Davy's grip." He curled his lip and gnashed his teeth together defiantly.

Sherlock picked up his sword again, contemplating the bound man at his feet. He felt trapped in a dream, lost in the unreality of it all. Time and consequences didn't seem to exist. There was only the living puzzle before him - one that he wanted to break.

"Ye took yer beatin' without complaint," Sherlock commented, admiring the purpling splotche of skin on Jim's torso. The areas he'd hit with the flat of his sword would be tender for awhile. "Mayhaps you like pain." Sherlock crouched until he was eye-level, threading fingers through Jim's hair and pulling his head back. A clever smile touched his lips.

"We'll try somethin' diff'rent, then. There be more kinds of torture than simple cuts 'n' bruises." Sherlock's fingers tightened their hold. He leaned in, stopping just above Jim's neck, letting his breath wash over the skin. And waited.

Goosebumps prickled across Jim's skin. A little shiver ran through his frame. Underneath Sherlock's grip it was just barely detectable. A bubble of choked laughter welled in Jim's throat but he cut it off with a strangled sound. "You _are_ a dastardly bugger, ain't ye?" he whined. Jim let his natural accent color the words so slightly, somehow fluidly melding with the put upon accent of their game. He let himself take a deep lungful of air, savoring Sherlock's warm breath on his skin. "Tha's just playin' dirty."

"When do I ever play anythin' _but_ dirty?" Sherlock murmured into Jim's ear, grinning as he watched Jim shiver and his breath slightly hitch. "I gave ye a sportin' chance, ye scoundrel. Ye insisted on challengin' me, and now ye reap th' consequences." Sherlock kept one hand firmly on Jim's bound wrists, holding him in place. Ever so slowly, he let the fingertips of his free hand trace up Jim's spine, revelling at the reactions he provoked from his captive. Goosebumps followed behind his touches as if he were painting them onto the man's pale skin.

Jim's spine lengthened and curved, his body bending with the touch. The sinewy muscles in his back and shoulders bunched taut and he let out the breath he'd been holding in one long exhale. "I'll have to give ye credit thar. Ne'er met such a scoundrel with a heart for as great an' grand o' deeds as yer's. Ye've the potential fer anythin'." Jim's smile was back, daring, taunting. He leveled his gaze at Sherlock, eyelids lowered and challenging. "Exceptin' maybe ter make me scream."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. There were few things he found more hateful than being told he was incapable of a task. "Ye seem all too sure of that." Sherlock's hand tilted, nails replacing fingertips as he raked over Jim's skin. Delicate pink lines began forming a tracework on his back. "I wouldn't be so sure, if I were ye. I be most _creative_. I be findin' a way to pull it out of ye."

Sherlock examined Jim with a critical eye, turning the problem over in his head. Their fight in the kitchen flickered to the forefront; biting the other man had just made him laugh. He didn't want him to laugh. He wanted Jim to scream and _beg_. For what, Sherlock wasn't certain yet.

Jim's breath shuddered. His reactions to Sherlock's nearness, his touch, his breath were all abnormally strong. His body was giving Sherlock very subtle clues that it could be played like an instrument that only Sherlock could command. Even if Jim was aware of them and in fact putting them on display for Sherlock to notice, they were there all the same. "O' that thar I am most certainly sure of meself. Ye can't make me give a peep," Jim breathed, but the light danced in his darting eyes like a dare.

Sherlock's gaze went cold and sharp, focus drawn like a knife. _Ye can't_ echoed in his head, over and over, a broken record provoking him and pushing him over the edge. Even in defeat, Jim was _defying_ him, trying to dictate the boundaries of what he could do, and he wouldn't. Stand. For. It.

Sherlock flipped Jim over in one violent motion, weight settled uncomfortably on his bound arms. Sherlock tugged off the man's boots and roughly bound his feet, too focused to notice his own heavy breathing. With Jim immobilized, Sherlock raised his sword again. The soft sounds of ripping cloth filled the air.

"O' ye villain, knave!" Jim snarled at him, his taunts playing along, provoking Sherlock further and further. "What'sa matter, ye too lily livered to be makin' good'n yer promises?" Jim's face was screwed into something nasty. His eyes and brows narrowed into hateful points of mockery fixed on Sherlock, but with every piece of clothing he lost came a hitch in his breath as well.

Sherlock shot him a look of pure irritation. His hand darted up and grabbed a fistful of Jim's hair, pulling his head up at a painful angle. " _Shut up_ ," he hissed, all traces of his accent dropped with his mental shift. "I've promised you _nothing_. There's nothing I can't figure out, and when I do? Your throat's going to be so raw from screaming you're going to wish you hadn't pushed me."

Sherlock abruptly let go, letting Jim's head thump back onto the carpet. He paused to survey his handiwork, ignoring the obvious signs that Jim was enjoying this far too much.

Jim lie still, bared to Sherlock and all the world. Only the soft yellow of the few lights that lit the apartment and ever present spectrum of glowing lights that was the city outside their window illuminated his skin. He was strung taut all over, thin but with a wiry tone of muscle across his body, bare chest, a light dusting of coarse, dark hair running down to his half hard cock. His chest rose and fell, full of life and vitality, unlike the cadavers Sherlock normally inspected this close and this uncovered. The dark, jeweled fabric of his shirt and coat and trousers lay in ribbons around him. But he didn't try to free himself. He didn't squirm or worry at his bounds, even though a man like Jim would have hated to be tied up and left to another's mercy.

"You have me now. Just what are you going to do to me?" Jim asked in a whisper.

That was an excellent question. Sherlock didn't know the answer. Grey eyes paused here and there, watching Jim's pulse and the shifting of muscles under skin, wondering where exactly he was going from here. His fingers ghosted over Jim's neck as he considered his options.

Pure pain wouldn't work on this man. Sherlock exhaled slowly and scooted backwards, placing his hands on Jim's torso and legs to keep him still. He leaned down, locking gazes with his captive, enjoying the way Jim's eyes widened slightly at the feel of his breath on tender skin. He paused for a moment, letting the tension build in the other man, then sunk his teeth into Jim's hip.

Jim gasped. There was a note of disbelief to the sound, surprise as much as sensation. It had to have _hurt_ , but Jim didn't fight it. The rise and fall of his chest deepened. Goosebumps spread across his arms and legs, but he remained quiet. It was clear he was forcing himself so. Watching Sherlock with eager, uncertain eyes, Jim's breath trembled.

Sherlock released him, glancing down and watching the half-moon of indentations slowly turn red as blood welled to the surface. He ran his tongue along them, salt and copper mingling on his tongue as the body under his hands shivered minutely. And _still_ Jim was fighting, refusing to struggle or make a sound. It only made Sherlock angrier. "Scream," he rasped, running fingertips along Jim's inner thigh that suddenly turned to raking nails.

The muscles under his hands flexed, tightening and drawing Jim's legs apart. "You'll have to do better than that," Jim said, his usually high voice now low and breathy. "Come on, Sherlock, you can do it do it," he whispered. He was refusing to fight the man hovering over him, still dressed in those ridiculous clothes. The pirate play had ended, but their game had not. Jim was acting as though they were on the same side, leading Sherlock along, drawing him out of his shell when it was in fact Jim who should have been the one with cries drawn from his throat.

Sherlock quivered, clenching his teeth in frustration. There was a line he didn't want to cross, that he didn't want to admit he was _afraid_ of crossing. Neither did he want to lose. He wasn't even certain whether the goal was still to hurt Jim or just to defy the man's expectations.

Sherlock snatched up his sword on impulse, eying Jim with a wild look in his eyes for a moment before that, too, broke. The tip of the blade sunk into the floor beside them. Sherlock closed his eyes and slumped over, resting his forehead against Jim's chest and trying to think around the cacophony of his own heartbeat filling his head.

Jim gave him a moment before he spoke again. It came in a whisper, barely discernible from his breathing. "You have me at your mercy. I couldn't do anything to stop you if I tried. You can kill me, you can torture me, you can make me beg for relief, or you can answer the questions that have been lingering at the back of your mind since before you can remember. What would it be like to touch someone, to have an intimacy with someone who could understand you, without fear?" Not a muscle in Jim's body moved after that. Even his breathing shallowed out to allow Sherlock no distraction.

"I hate you," Sherlock murmured, voice muffled against Jim's skin. Frustration was making him itch, everything wound too-tight and without an outlet for relief. He was done with this game.

Sherlock sat up and flipped Jim over again. He pried the sword loose from the floor and cut the man's bonds before dropping the blade. He curled his arms around his knees and eyed Jim sullenly.

It took a moment for Jim to pull himself upright. He didn't make an effort to cover himself right away, just get his arms and legs underneath him enough to sit properly. When he turned to Sherlock his face held not the victorious revelry of his opponents defeat and his own escape. A frown tugged at his lips in an otherwise blank expression. "I didn't win, love," he told Sherlock. "We both just lost."

Much to Sherlock's horror, the edges of his vision blurred and he felt a trickle of dampness down one cheek. He glared at Jim over the circle of his arms. This was entirely the other man's fault, and it brought back uncomfortable memories. He felt scolded and shamed, as if Mycroft had just lectured him on all his shortcomings and faults and left him feeling each and every lack, a laundry list of disappointments.

Jim shook his head, his expression lost its hardness. "No, no, hush now," he said, pulling a long stripe of clothing around himself, not the way it was meant to go, but it did the trick for now. He moved to Sherlock's side, ignoring his wary gaze and the way he flinched away. Jim seemed intent on invading his personal space once again. But this time his hands were meant to comfort. His palms laid on Sherlock's shoulders and he looked into the detective's eyes. "I know you hate me. I wish you didn't." For a moment it looked like that statement really got to Jim, his face contorted in a flash of sorrow before he fought it down. "I've never cared before. Not for anyone."

Sherlock couldn't miss the sense of loneliness in those words - the feeling of being on the outside of everything and looking in, dealing with the alienation by developing a sense of superiority and purposefully detaching from everyone in spiteful revenge. He understood it all too well, and what came afterward: the horror on people's faces when they discovered that you really didn't care, that all their assumptions about human empathy and attachment were not universal.

Sherlock's breathing hitched. He wanted another hit. He wanted to be anywhere but here, being observed as the magnificent, delicate machinery that was his mind broke down under the emotional stress that he couldn't ignore or defer any longer. He missed John.

Hands stroked over his shoulders comfortingly and it was too much. He uncurled and wrapped himself around Jim. He buried his face against the smaller man's neck and bit back a sob.

Jim's arms opened up for him. His small body melted into Sherlock's larger one. Jim's chin rested on his shoulder and his fingers stroked Sherlock's back. Jim's heart beat solidly against Sherlock's chest. "You're so shy," he whispered into Sherlock's hair. "So scared of me seeing you unravel. You don't need to be."

Sherlock shook his head but said nothing. All of his logic had broken down and the world had turned on its head. He was no longer certain of anything anymore. There was no clear path to take from here. Here he was, wrapped around the man he purportedly hated, being comforted and... however much part of him was convinced that it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , it felt... right. Memories of his night with John on the couch overlapped the feeling and Sherlock curled tighter around Jim, letting himself be touched.

Jim's grip tightened back, his fingers winding in Sherlock's hair, the side of his head pressing against Sherlock's. While Sherlock's breathing was ragged, so was Jim's. It seemed Sherlock's embrace had been unexpected, and he clung to it like a lifeline. The scent of them filled the air, thick with sweat and something that belonged to each man individually. Jim rocked them together like he never wanted to let go.

Sherlock shut his eyes and let himself sink into the sensation, tension slowly leaking out of his frame as it became clear that Jim wouldn't try to take advantage of the situation. The warmth of the other man's body was more soothing than he'd expected. After a brief hesitation, Sherlock loosened his grip just enough to shift his hands, one drifting up to tangle in Jim's hair while the other traced over the nail marks he'd made only minutes earlier.

That caused a small shiver in Jim. A puff of breath and the curve of a small smile against the crook of Sherlock's neck let him know that it wasn't unwelcome. "Sensitive. Tickles. Hurts." Jim explained. He sighed and relaxed against Sherlock, probably losing some of the fear that he would pull away at any moment. "What does it look like?" Jim asked. He couldn't see the marks himself, not from this angle.

Sherlock glanced down, watching his own fingers move across the marks. "...like tracks from ice skates across a pond. Only pink instead of silver." He settled his weight more firmly in Jim's lap; the smaller man's lack of clothing didn't bother him so long as he wasn't going to try anything Sherlock didn't want to do. The human form didn't bother him, whether living or dead.

Sherlock sighed, lifting his hand from Jim's back to stare at his own fingertips. "...don't really hate you," he admitted under his breath. In truth, he didn't know how to categorize Jim. There were too many conflicting variables all jumbled together.

Jim went impossibly still. He stopped breathing. When he started again, there was a definite hitch in it. "Oh Sherlock…." he murmured, voice welling with emotion. His eyes remained dry, but his body trembled as though wracked with undefinable feeling, relief, sympathy, elation, and a hint of sorrow. He buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. "Thank you."

Sherlock's hand lowered to Jim's back again, feeling the ripples through the man's frame. It felt... reassuring that Moriarty actually felt enough to _have_ such reactions. He was reminded uncomfortably of all the accusations he'd had leveled against himself at times - that he was a monster, a machine, an unfeeling sociopath, a time bomb, deserving to be locked up. They'd both done terrible things, but they weren't empty shells.

"I don't know what to do with you."

Jim must have been mulling that over in his head for a moment because he paused, and then huffed a little laugh against Sherlock's skin. No doubt he had many, many ideas on what he and Sherlock could do, but with Sherlock's mental and emotional state hanging in the balance, what they _should_ do remained to be seen. But, if that statement said one thing, it was that Jim was a part of Sherlock's life now. And the detective was looking to find a place for him.

"You'll learn." Jim said. "As you have with every other variable in this world, you will take me apart, and I will let you, and you will decide whether you like what you see or not." Jim had such faith in him. Jim had such faith in himself. But if this little scene was any indication, his faith did not equate to absolute surety.

"Perhaps so." Sherlock sighed. The slight nausea and dysphoria from his second high of the day was finally hitting him alongside everything else. This after the day's emotional highs and lows, and the sleepless wandering he'd done on the streets, combined to leave him dead tired.

He wanted to sleep, but all that waited in his room was the bare, unfamiliar walls that weren't home and John's jumper, haunting and accusatory as it dried in the bathroom. Even Eli's sightless gaze and ever-present smile wouldn't be a comfort.

Sherlock didn't want to move.

Jim's fingers brushed away the sweat forming at his temples. Perhaps he sensed Sherlock's discomfort because he shifted, pulling them back until he could lever them up onto the nearby sofa. He had to readjust the cloth, what was left of his trousers to wrap around his waist but he settled his back against the cushions and beckoned Sherlock to lie down with him.

Sherlock went without a fuss, though his vision wavered again as he remembered the last time he'd done this. His companion was nothing like John, aside from the size of his frame and the comfort his hands were offering. Sherlock curled up against him and tried to sink into the warmth of the man's skin. He could see Jim's gaze in the corner of his eye; it was discomforting in its intensity, in the sheer rawness he was exuding, as if he couldn't believe Sherlock was going along with this.

It was probably being stored away in his memory like a perfect copy of one of his video recordings. This moment, for Jim, would mean so much.

Warm arms wrapped around Sherlock. Soft fingers petted his hair, curling the strands around the curve of his ear and dragging in a pleasant caress. Jim sighed with contentment and relaxed against Sherlock, still mapping every inch of the man, the way the light arced over his shoulder, caught in his hair, the shadows cast across his face until Jim's eyes finally closed and he bent his forehead to the other man's.

Despite the strangeness of the situation and how unfamiliar it was to be touched, Sherlock couldn't deny that it was relaxing. Sherlock closed his eyes. "Don't do anything to me," he murmured, feeling himself on the edge of falling asleep. He knew that Jim would know what he meant.

Jim laughed softly in his ear. That was his only response. The fingers didn't stop their slow strokes through Sherlock's hair, but Jim made no move to go any further. Not while Sherlock was awake. And, judging from what Jim seemed to want from him, likely not while he was asleep either.

After a few minutes Sherlock's breathing evened out. Even with his remaining misgivings about what Jim was capable of, he'd trusted him enough to slip into unconsciousness in the other man's arms. He was out cold, oblivious to Jim's fingers in his hair.

Jim watched him sleep. He waited, counting down the minutes and looking for the minute changes in Sherlock's body. He was past the first stage of sleep in five minutes, the second in 20. His heart rate began slowing along with his breathing. Jim waited. Once he'd reached delta sleep, his eyes and muscles absolutely still, his heart steady, Jim knew he was under.

He leaned in and, ever so softly, with only the lightest of touches, brushed his lips against Sherlock's. Jim smiled then, and closed his eyes, following the way of the detective and the sandman.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback on the last chapter. We're grateful this story has made such an impression on some of you!

Sherlock slept hard. Several hours passed before he even began to stir. He tensed when his brain processed what his body was telling him; there was warm breath on his face and arms wrapped around his chest. Sherlock cautiously opened his eyes.

Jim's unconscious features came into focus. Confusion filled him for a moment before memories of the previous night caught up to him. Even then - he'd fallen asleep wrapped around his captor. His still nearly _nude_ captor. Sherlock glanced down, noting with relief that his clothing was still intact and he appeared to be unmolested.

It took a few minutes for Jim to wake up, but when he did it was instantaneous. His breathing went from low and steady to suddenly controlled. His eyelids slid open and focused immediately on Sherlock like he had only closed them for a moment, picking up where he'd left off last night. Nothing about him changed outwardly, but he gave the impression that he was smiling. "Good morning."

Sherlock froze, even his mind going still and blank. What did one say in a situation like this? He shifted uneasily, then flinched as colour washed over his cheeks - the movement had brought other matters to his attention that he'd rather have not noticed. The matter wasn't helped in the slightest by Jim's state of relative undress.

He swallowed. "Morning."

Jim blinked slowly. A real smile curled his lips. "Apparently a _very_ good morning," he said airily. One of his fingers drew lightly down the curve of Sherlock's spine, halting at the small of his back. His eyes dropped down between them pointedly and snapped back up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

A small amount of panic filtered into Sherlock's eyes, even as his body unconsciously shivered and curved into the touch, very much at war with his mind. "Not that good," he countered, voice still gritty from sleep.

"It's a perfectly natural, and unconscious, reaction during sleep, Sherlock," Jim said logically. Especially when locked in the comfortable embrace of another warm body. A warm body who's operator no doubt enjoyed that reaction immensely. "Even you should know not to take it to heart."

"I'm well aware," Sherlock snapped. Jim was too close, the hand at the small of his back was more distracting than it should have been, and- Jim shifted slightly and Sherlock suddenly shut his eyes and inhaled sharply, stimulation now coming from both sides and derailing his thought processes. Jim was _too close_. Sherlock shivered, then bit down on his lower lip as the reaction did nothing to help the situation.

Jim raised one sleek eyebrow. "Problem?" His eyes darted for a second to the stitches in Sherlock's lip. The motion was distracting. And Jim wasn't moving. Or, when he did, it was only to shift again. Him moving his body to allow the blood to flow through his arm again and the shift of his hips in the process was incredibly inconvenient.

Sherlock swallowed a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan. "Let me go." Even as he said it, part of Sherlock wasn't certain he _wanted_ to be released. He opened his eyes, meeting Jim's gaze and trying to ignore the mortifying little voice in some corner of his mind that wanted to lean in and satisfy a longstanding curiosity.

"I'm not keeping you here," Jim smiled. "You can leave whenever you want, but I'm going to have a bit of a lie in if that's alright with you." He sighed and stretched his muscles, his back curving, his hips following, his legs stretching. Even his eyes fluttered shut as though he really were just chasing away the last bit of sleep from his system. If he brushed up against Sherlock in the process, well, it was a small sofa and couldn't be helped.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he was assaulted by visual and tactile stimulation. His breathing stopped as his brain shut down for a moment, a bizarre sensation of vertigo passing through him as his body decided his blood had other places to be. Sherlock was frozen; he couldn't recall ever experiencing this before. Not even the one time his former flatmate had showered and proceeded to lounge about the living room in his dressing gown, reading the newspaper and ensuring that Sherlock's experiments that afternoon were thoroughly ruined from distraction.

Jim hummed in contentment, a sound from the back of his throat and not at all exaggerated. His arms shifted snugly around Sherlock and he gave one last movement of his lower half before he rested with the line of his body pressed firmly into the taller man's. He let his eyes drift shut, but the hint of a smile still played at his lips. The lack of movement did nothing to relieve the now constant pressure of Jim's weight. He was simply not going to move. Until he did, again. The tiniest shift of hips, inconsistent with the extremity of the sensation it caused.

Sherlock's head filled with white noise and his eyes followed the smug, satisfied curve of Jim's lips. Before he even knew what was happening, Sherlock had leaned in, stopping just short of kissing the smaller man. One of his hands had drifted lower by sheer blind instinct, settling at the small of Jim's back. Sherlock's breathing turned ragged, his eyes dark with lust and fear.

The smile turned into one of awe. Jim's eyes widened. He was surprised. He brought his hand up and caressed Sherlock's cheek with the back of his fingers, testing the other man's reaction. When there was none, he shifted his lower body again, this time more obvious in his intent. He could _feel_ Sherlock there, through the layers of the costume he still wore.

Sherlock flinched slightly, body tensing in response but still not moving away. He felt drugged, hypnotized, knowing there was only a thin barrier between himself and a predator and still unable to stop himself from sticking an arm through the bars in invitation. The look Jim was giving him only made him more anxious.

"It's okay," Jim breathed, "Shh…I won't hurt you, I won't take advantage of you. You can stop me whenever you want to. It's okay…" His voice was water, soothing, warm, flowing over Sherlock, the words themselves almost meaningless. Jim rocked forward again. He pressed the flat of his palm into Sherlock's lower back to encourage the motion while their hips pressed together. He was lengthening too. His lack of clothing did very little to hide it.

Sherlock's eyes flickered closed and his lips parted in a quiet gasp. He didn't know whether or not Jim was telling the truth, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter. This was _very_ different from the mechanical sort of self-pleasuring he indulged in every so often just to stop his own body from distracting him with pointless desires. Somehow the friction was more intense when it was induced by someone else.

Jim shifted his legs to get a better angle. One of them wound between Sherlock's, the other hooked around his calf to get better purchase. His own breath was deepening, coming quicker. Oddly, he never closed his eyes, never took them off Sherlock's icy grey ones. His fingers folded into the hair at the base of Sherlock's scalp, winding and caressing while the rhythm of their hips became steady. His lips parted, pink tongue darting out to lick at his cut, then disappearing again.

Sherlock was acting purely on instinct. His eyes opened again at the sensation of fingers in his hair, watching the path of Jim's tongue before following it back to the source. Jim's mouth was surprisingly soft and warm; the kiss was nothing at all like the vicious battle they'd had in the kitchen. Their hips shifted and hit a particularly good angle, causing Sherlock to jerk at electric spark that shot up his spine and heated up his skin.

Jim moaned like he'd been drowning and was just now pulled into fresh air. Sherlock was setting the pace of their kiss, but Jim met him for every stroke of lips and tongue, clearly not wanting it to end. His eyes drooped to half mast, like he didn't want to close them and lose sight of the other man. For a moment, he trembled, reverent that finally, _unbelievably_ , after so long, Sherlock's mouth was pressed to his, their hips rocking together. His other arm, trapped beneath Sherlock, wound around his back and pulled him tighter. Their chests pressed together. Jim didn't want an inch of air between them.

Sherlock felt Jim moan into him, liquid vibrations of air that left one set of lungs and poured into the other. Sherlock inhaled sharply and pulled back, breaking the kiss and tucking himself against Jim's neck. He could feel the other man's pulse beneath his cheek; every breath was filled with the tang of sweat and musk and the undertone that Sherlock was beginning to recognize as Moriarty. They were pressed as close as they could get and it still didn't feel like _enough_. Sherlock's fingers curled into claws in frustration, sharp pinpricks against Jim's skin.

Goosebumps greeted him as they washed over Jim's flesh. He might have gotten the hint because his free hand untangled itself from Sherlock's hair and ran down his spine, over the curve of his hip, and along the hem of his trousers. His fingernails tickled Sherlock's stomach as they went. Jim sucked in a breath on the next thrust and wiggled the hand between them. His fingers folded as much as they could around the length of Sherlock through the material caught between them, but it was just a bit more friction.

Sherlock moaned against Jim's neck and thrust without thinking. He was well past the point of being coherent, suspended in need and sensations he hadn't thought possible. Suddenly human sexual motivations made a great deal more sense.

Sherlock clung to Jim and moved against him, rapidly losing his fear as he drowned in endorphins.

Jim was holding back. It was clear in the tension of his shoulders and the base of his neck. The sounds he made now might have given Sherlock an instant win in their game the night prior, high, keening things from the back of his throat. His fingers uncurled from their prize, but instead of moving away, he caught the button of Sherlock's trousers and popped them open, one by one until he could shove the fabric out of the way. With only a light trail of nails following the curl of hair at Sherlock's waistline, Jim's hand slithered beneath his pants.

Sherlock's breath caught and he arched; if Jim hadn't been holding onto him so tightly, the motion would have made him fall off the sofa. Lust spiked through him and Sherlock didn't know what to do with it, twisting and writhing and raking his fingernails down Jim's back. The struggle finally knocked them to the floor. Sherlock landed on his back, Jim draped over him.

Jim lost the shreds of his clothing along the way, and it didn't hinder their progress. He tugged down Sherlock's pants until the cool air met his sensitive skin.

Jim sat up, his legs straddling the other man's hips, just so he could look down and see Sherlock like this. Still fully clothed but for his trousers riding down his hips and his cock in Jim's hand, Sherlock lay on the floor looking completely debauched, immobilized by the sensations at only one focal point in his body. With a quick motion, Jim spit in his hand to ease the dryness and then brought their lengths together, his small hand barely wrapping around both. He became entranced watching the slide of them.

Sherlock's eyes rolled up for a moment at the sensation. A low moan escaped him and vertigo hit again; his hands settled on Jim's bare hips, seeking out something to anchor himself with. The sensation of heat and slick friction was unbearable, overwhelming in a way that Sherlock normally associated with pain. Instead of squirming away, however, his body rocked up into it, sliding against Jim, secure in his grip. The smaller man's dark gaze left him feeling pinned and exposed.

He shuddered. He wasn't going to last very long, not like this.

Jim bent and sucked at Sherlock's wounded lip. He'd done that. He'd left that mark on Sherlock, as Sherlock had left his own on Jim. Again their bodies slid together, pressing flush, but Jim's hand never lost its rhythm. He varied it, throwing them both off with an unexpected burst of sensation every so often, and somehow being kept on the edge of control like that only heightened the speed of their progress toward the end.

Jim's eyes were open the whole time, drinking in the site of Sherlock's flushed skin, the line of his mouth, the nearly pained expressions he made, the furrow of his brow. None of it Jim wanted to miss. He bent his head and whispered a mantra into Sherlock's neck, just below his ear. "Loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou…."

The low murmuring in his ear proved to be too much. Sherlock's grip tightened on Jim and he arched against him with a cry, his pleasure finally spilling over. He shook underneath Jim as white noise filled his mind and a sticky warmth escaped between Jim's fingers to drip onto his bared stomach. Sherlock clung to him through the high, not wanting to come back down.

Jim came only a moment after. Judging by the quickness of it, it was Sherlock's own release that did it for him. He shuddered against the man underneath him with a hitch in his breath that sounded, amazingly, beyond his ability to control. He buried his face against Sherlock's skin, clinging back with all his might until finally the feeling subsided. His hand loosened its grip when it was over, but Jim didn't pull away.

Sherlock panted, their hearts beating in tandem and gradually slowing down as their muscles relaxed, leaving them in a sweaty, sticky tangle of limbs. There was a blissful, dreamlike state of detachment in Sherlock's mind; the constant buzz had stopped, much as it did when he suppressed it with drugs. The blessed silence lasted for a handful of minutes before his awareness started returning in bits and pieces. His brain helpfully pointed out where he was, who was on top of him, what they had been doing, chattered observations and data points in clinical tones and filed them all away.

Sherlock tensed and began to panic.

Jim must have noticed the sudden change. He pulled his hand free and braced himself on one arm, lifting his head enough to look at Sherlock. What he saw in the other man's expression must not have been good. "No no no…" Jim crooned, but it sounded more desperate than any voice he'd used on Sherlock thus far. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't."

Sherlock let go of Jim and pressed one palm to his mouth to stifle the whimper that was threatening to escape. He'd- ...how had this even happened? It was a struggle to think through the pleasurable cocktail of hormones still flooding his system. He'd been foolish enough to let himself fall asleep with Jim the night previous, then woken up and just...

What was wrong with him? He'd been disgusted and horrified just a few days previous by Jim's sexual interest. He'd spent his days trying to alternatively avoid or deal with the loss of his previous life and all the people who'd filled it, and then he'd just laid back and let the architect of its destruction have his way.

Sherlock stared up at Jim and, for the first time in years, didn't understand himself.

Jim's hand laid softly on his chest. He looked at Sherlock like he knew what Sherlock was thinking. "You look like a man who's just discovered something about himself he'd have rather not known," he said softly. Not perfect, but close. "We all have ideas about ourselves, notions that, though founded in truth most of the time, can be broken under the right circumstances."

Sherlock swallowed and wished he were anywhere else but here. Jim's gaze, like his words, were uncomfortable, even if there wasn't a hint of disdain or pity in them. "I don't-" Sherlock's voice was too rough, too quiet. He cut off and tried again. "I don't know what happened. Let me up." He had the most uncharacteristic desire to retreat to his rooms and hide. Perhaps if he scrubbed away the evidence he could delete it all from his mind.

Jim's face schooled into neutrality, but he nodded and respectfully moved off Sherlock. He didn't go far, just pulled to the side and allowed the other man to free himself. Jim lied back on his elbows and watched Sherlock pull himself together, uncaring of his own nudity and undignified position on the floor.

Sherlock sat up and took stock of himself, distress showing through his features as he was confronted with the evidence of what had happened. What he, _they_ had done. Sherlock glanced sideways at Jim, pulling his trousers back up and standing on shaky legs. He still felt light-headed.

He stepped backwards, slowly retreating toward the stairs.

Jim simply watched him go until he was out of sight. He waited for the sound of the upstairs door and it wasn't until then that he moved. Methodically, he picked up the shreds of his clothing and righted a lamp that had fallen off its stand during their fight. He ignored the rest and made his way to the opposite side of the apartment where his own rooms resided. He hadn't shown them to Sherlock when he'd first arrived. Judging from the state of affairs between them now, the detective would likely rather keep it that way.

Sherlock held his composure until he was safely behind his bedroom door. His expression twisted once the lock clicked. He bit down on one hand to keep quiet, distracting himself with physical pain before he began stripping away his clothing. He threw the garments into the lab room and shut the door so he wouldn't have to look at them.

He crossed over to the bathroom only to find John's jumper where he'd left it to dry, no less accusatory for being empty and inanimate. Sherlock cast his gaze down as he took it down and folded it carefully. He tucked it into a dresser drawer in the bedroom before returning to turn on the water as hot as he could stand it.

Sherlock scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw feeling, but he couldn't lose the panic and vague, sickening sense of shame. Neither could he delete the memories of what happened, no matter how he tried. They played back again and again, echoing in his psyche.

He ended up sitting on the cold porcelain floor under the stream, hair trailing into his eyes as he watched the water swirl down the drain.

Across the apartment, Jim busied himself by getting ready for the day. He ran his own shower, enjoying the feel of heated water running down his body, over everywhere he and Sherlock had pressed together. He nearly became hard again just thinking about it. He finished and dried himself, stepping into a great robe. After finishing the rest of his routine and some consideration on Sherlock's possible state of mind, Jim began to dress. Prada today. It would make him feel more comfortable in his own skin. As coincidence would have it, Sherlock's actions had surprised him as much as they had the detective. He couldn't help the thrill of elation as he looked in the mirror, all dark black and deep reds, and remembered what Sherlock had been like. It was ingrained in his memory forever now. No matter what happened, he would never lose the knowledge that Sherlock had come apart under his hands. He sat on the foot of his bed to put his shoes on, lacing up red to match the splash of color in his tie.

Sherlock finally roused himself from his daze and shut off the water. He dried off and shaved automatically. His mind was elsewhere, desperately trying to process events and unfamiliar emotions. Sherlock wasn't used to feeling guilty; he normally didn't concern himself with the moral constructions of other people.

Sherlock stood for a long moment in front of his closet. He didn't have any clothing that hadn't been purchased for him by Jim. There was nothing for it; he selected a dark purple shirt to go with a black pair of trousers and jacket. After a bit of hesitation and an internal argument with himself, he gave in and fished out his needles and vials. The drug hit his systems rapidly, one part comfort blanket and one part emotional shield.

Feeling a bit more stable, Sherlock exited his rooms and descended to the kitchen to scrounge for food and caffeine.

Jim returned not long after looking as impeccable as ever but for the light amount of stubble over his chin. He sat himself down beside the detective, sucking on another one of his candies from the tin and scrolling through his phone. Jim glanced over when Sherlock did not immediately exude discomfort, and looked him up and down. Jim determined he'd injected again, but said nothing. "You'll have to order in if you're hungry."

"Do you have a list of nearby options?" Sherlock asked. "Or does this complex actually do room service?" He took a seat beside Jim, not seeing any point trying to physically avoid him... but not looking at him either. He was calm, too calm, his features a perfect detached mask as if nothing had ever happened. Sherlock could see the crisp, tailored lines of Jim's clothing out of the corner of his vision. A shiver travelled up his spine.

Jim peered back at him. It was impossible to tell if he'd caught the reaction or not. He considered Sherlock carefully, assessing, then slid his phone across the countertop. Helpfully, there was a list of places to order bookmarked and neatly organized according to Jim's favorites. Which was interesting because it didn't seem like Jim had lived here for very long. Jim didn't seem concerned that he'd offered up his personal phone either. He simply turned around, rested his back against the table, and stared up at the ceiling. "You can have groceries ordered in if you're particularly fond of cooking, but, and correct me if I'm wrong, I don't believe you are."

"No, not really." Sherlock picked up the phone and began scrolling through the list. Nothing had caught his eye yet. "Despite all of the jokes about cooking being the same as chemistry, it really isn't. Cooking is boring, and only rarely can you light something on fire and have it still end up edible."

Sherlock bypassed the Italian food - they'd had pizza the previous day. "How do you feel about Chinese?"

Jim hummed and nodded in approval. He glanced at the phone in Sherlock's hand, reading the restaurant name. "Toro rolls and tako, please," he said sweetly and then went a step further and batted his eyelashes at Sherlock. The flirtation went as quick as it came when Jim broke their gaze to go back to staring at the ceiling. "If you're feeling up to it, we'll be visiting the warehouse today," Jim began. He sounded less sure of himself than he had last night about the matter, which probably had something to do with Sherlock's mood.

Sherlock considered and discarded half a dozen possibilities. "I'll be fine. The warehouse will be fine." Anything to keep him occupied, any sort of stimulation to keep him from thinking about certain things. Even the word _stimulation_ , innocently placed in his train of thought, derailed him with images that had to be quickly pushed aside. "...it's fine."

Sherlock dialed the number for Tao and ordered for them. "Hello? Yes. Order for delivery. Toro rolls and tako, and the sea scallops with red curry. Yes, that's all." He rattled off the address when prompted and hung up without further ado. "You have coffee or tea, I should hope."

"In the cupboard," Jim drawled. He obviously did care much about putting together a meal for himself, nor his new roommate. Yet, they couldn't want for anything else in the place. Jim had the strangest oversights in regard to hospitality. When Sherlock was finished with the phone, he plucked it out of the detective's hand again and began flicking through it, disconnecting from the world.

Sherlock rose and moved to the cupboards, finding all the relevant paraphernalia and assembling it near the kitchen's coffeepot. He had the water reservoir filled and coffee brewing in a few minutes, the machine's hissing and gurgling breaking the silence of the room. With that accomplished, he slid back into his seat beside Jim to wait. "When are we going to the warehouse?" Questions, answers, Sherlock needed something to fill the quiet, something to distract him.

"Whenever you're finished with breakfast." Jim didn't look up. The pot filled. The drip tapered off. Steam wafted out of the little machine. Jim held out one arm, hand open, waiting for a cup. His eyes never left the phone. The motion was so eerily reminiscent of Sherlock himself back at the flat on Baker St.

Sherlock snorted, but the sound was amused rather than annoyed. He glanced over at the phone in Jim's hands every once in a while, trying to deduce what he was up to, never catching enough glimpses to pin down a firm answer. The coffee machine beeped its completion and Sherlock rose. He fetched and filled two cups with brew and returned. He set one mug in Jim's hand, not bothering to ask if he took it any way but black, then turned his attention to his own mug.

Mechanically, Jim brought it to his lips and sipped. He seemed content in that moment, though it was hard to say whether it was the small things that made it so, Sherlock at his side, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, the work at his fingertips, or whether it was the scene unfolding in the bigger picture. Nevertheless, he decided to break the moment. "How are you feeling?"

There was a tiny hesitation before Sherlock kicked in an automatic response. "Fine." Even hidden away behind his self-imposed shield of chemicals, doing his best to avoid confronting the issues, vulgar images and thoughts kept springing up in his mind. Sherlock certainly _wasn't_ fine, but he was going to stubbornly persist in trying to deny it.

Jim rolled his eyes, but he still wouldn't look at Sherlock. Finally he clicked off his phone and set it neatly and squarely down on the counter beside him. He picked up his coffee and took a long sip. It was only a few minutes of silence before the phone buzzed. Jim checked the ID, then shut it off and punched in a text. Four minutes and thirty-five seconds later their doorbell rang. Their order had arrived. Jim made no move to get up.

Sherlock saw how it was. He frowned slightly and got to his feet; how _had_ John managed? Or perhaps it hadn't really irritated him - being an army man, he would have been used to duty and orders, maybe even developed a taste for having small tasks to perform. He'd put up a minimum fuss, at any rate.

Sherlock reminded himself that he had to stop thinking about John. He was going to drive himself mad. He opened the door, only to be confronted with a bill along with the warm containers of food. Sherlock padded back to the kitchen. "Jim. The delivery boy wants money."

"Can't you just shoot him?" Jim was sitting with his coffee and did not look like he wanted to be disturbed. There was silence. The joke, if it was a joke, fell flat. With a sigh, Jim reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card, handing it to Sherlock. "Keep it."

Sherlock turned the card over in his hand, examining it for a second before returning to the door. The delivery boy fussed but accepted, and after a few moments Sherlock returned with the food. He passed Jim his order of sushi and started on his own food. The curry was different from the London restaurants Sherlock was used to, but passable.

"You are irritated at me." It was a statement, not a question; Jim still hadn't looked at him, and his body language was stiff, cautious, yet vaguely demanding.

"Fabulous deduction," Jim said around a mouthful of toro. Although he was fastidious in his home and his clothing, he made no effort with table manners. He left the chopsticks untouched and used his fingers instead. It was strangely similar to the mentality he seemed to hold about his facial hair. Particular in some areas, completely indifferent in others. "You're afraid. You're…probably rather guilty. And you're thinking about your former flatmate." That was the first time Jim had, directly or indirectly, brought up the subject of John.

Sherlock shrugged; if it was that obvious, there was little use in denying it. The pretense was more for his own sake. "True on all accounts." He took another bite, pondering as he chewed. "It's been an interesting progression through unfamiliar situations and emotions, I'll give it that much." The curry was slowly dying the corners of his mouth a bloody red.

Jim's mouth turned up. The color caught his eye and held it while he took another roll. He chewed thoughtfully. "I do believe you have a kiss in the right hand corner of your mouth," he said quixotically. His smile grew. Sherlock couldn't see what had become of his lips.

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful of scallop, turning towards Jim with a slight frown. He didn't understand what the smaller man was talking about. Sherlock swiped his thumb over his lips and examined the reddened digit. "I don't think curry is quite the same as that."

It occurred to Sherlock that Jim was doing what probably qualified as flirting. His fingers tightened on his chopsticks; that was another factor he hadn't considered. Jim didn't want him to forget.

"Hm. Not normally, no," Jim admitted. He licked his lips, intentionally swiping his tongue over the gash in the bottom one. "….but, when _you_ kiss, well…." There was a coy smile about him that indicated enjoyment and not a derogatory comment on Sherlock's competence. Even though, arguably, that hadn't been kissing. Not intentionally.

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally. Definitely flirting. The angle of the spine, leaning towards him, dilated pupils fixed on his face, suggestive tongue movements, smile indicating pleasure, fingers- Sherlock's mental cataloguing seized up as his eyes followed Jim's hand as it dipped inside the box in front of him, extracting another piece of sushi. Somehow, Jim managed even to make that suggestive; even the flash of predatory teeth wasn't horrifying, but the opposite.

Sherlock was staring. They both knew it, but he found he couldn't look away, even when Jim turned that crooked smile back on him again.

The look said one thing: 'Maybe there's hope for you yet.'

With that confirmed, Jim moved onto other matters. "We'll be traveling upstate for this. Bit of a drive I'm afraid, but the effort will pay off. Besides, I have something I would like to show you in the meantime. Will help you understand the benefits of what I'm searching for until I can give you a better demonstration."

"A long drive won't be a problem so long as I have something to occupy me." Sherlock flinched slightly after the words left him; what would have been perfectly innocent and accurate, even yesterday, could very well be misinterpreted by the smaller man after that morning's madness. "I have some measure of what you're seeking. You mentioned rerouting the pathways of the mind yesterday." Before they had gotten distracted with other things.

"Yes, yes I did. We've already sated ourselves physically," Jim smiled, chewing an octopus leg. "This will be an opportunity to see what we can accomplish mentally." Jim's eyes turned sharp, lustful in another way, one that extended beyond Sherlock's body. The excitement thrumming through him turned up a notch.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and contemplated Jim in silence. He was forced to admit that he found this look from Jim far less disconcerting than the one that spoke of physical hunger. He could imagine the man's desire for an intellectual challenge all too well - an intellectual partner even more so. It was likely he'd never found his match before, and so he'd never had to deal with the disappointment of losing such a partner.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Meditation. Together," Jim put down what little remained of his meal. "There is much to talk about but specifically I have been focusing on one area. Pain control. Now, in the beginning, I would like to simply see what you and I are capable of. We'll have roughly four hours. Then, we will see what a mind that's been practicing the technique since childhood is capable of. Ordinary minds, remember, but with thousands of hours of dedication behind them."

Sherlock didn't have to give it much consideration; his expression visibly brightened with interest, gaze sharpening as he turned his attention to Jim and abandoned the rest of his food. "Intriguing. I'm a quick study, four hours should be ample time to experiment with the basics and gather preliminary data." Sherlock's mind was already racing, guessing at what types of tests they'd have to run, how many rounds they'd need in order to generate solid conclusions.

It sparked a certain, matching light in Jim's eyes. They had played their mental games through a series of cat-and-mouse crime chases. That had been a taste of what they could do together, how things with the two of them could escalate until they reached a level untouchable to no one but each other. The Metropolitan Police left baffled and ignorant, Sherlock's bosom friends clueless. But, all the while they had been making their moves, complex and extraordinary though they were, at a distance. Finally, they could play within arm's reach.

"We'll have _plenty_ of opportunity, I'm certain," Jim fixed Sherlock with his leering gaze. "Although I admit I am just as eager to begin."

Sherlock blinked, surprised at Jim's sudden change in demeanor. Surely mind exercises and meditation didn't approach- A knowing light suddenly sparked behind his eyes, remembering another time and a different set of eyes glazed over with pleasure as they watched a living body twitch in pain. He refocused on Jim, suddenly wary. "I didn't know you were interested in such things."

Jim snorted. The quality of the expression did not wholly leave him, but he did answer Sherlock's leading question. "If exercises of the mind are just as appealing as those of the body, why would I seek to separate them?" Jim played his body like an instrument when he put on the farce of fictional personas. He'd made it sing during sex. Although undoubtedly incomparable to his mind, it was very much a part of him. With this taken into account, it may not have been so surprising that he was intensely interested in the effects the state of the brain could inflict upon the body, and vice versa.

"Well." Sherlock frowned slightly, trying to process how he felt about the possibility. How likely was it that he'd ever let Jim near him again, to the degree required for the other man to try to indulge such interests? Would Jim feel entitled to further encounters now that the mistake had been made and permission granted once? "I suppose it's better to be forewarned, all things considered. I understand that some people quite enjoy inflicting pain on others, but the idea of being a recipient doesn't hold much appeal."

Jim cocked his head, the intensity of his gaze faltering. He puzzled at Sherlock's turn of words for a moment and then burst into another snort of laughter. "Oh no. I'm not a sadist, dear. Not for the sake of sadism, anyway. I'm simply quite intent on digging down to the very bottom of things, people, and _very_ curious as to how to get under their skin. So to speak." He smirked at his own turn of phrase. "It thrills me, physically, to study your brain, Sherlock. It is quite like my own. Magnificent, in pain, in pleasure, in _action_." Jim composed himself, letting the praise drop and moving on. "What gave you the notion?"

"Your expression, when combined with the goal of the exercises. You'd mentioned working towards pain resistance, which means testing threshold levels at some point, and you seemed keen on it." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I know a sadist, and I've seen the occasional corpse that had remaining marks from sessions. I wasn't certain whether this was another interest of yours and whether there were additional, unspoken expectations in this study." He was worried enough about unspoken expectations in general without adding torture sessions to the list.

Jim's smile met his eyes, but he put on a pout anyway. "I fear that the ultimate goal, the point at which the subject can adequately resist pain stimulus, is what truly has me on the edge of my seat. Put me into a mood though, and I'll be every bit the sadist you're looking for," he added with grin in full force. Then his eyes narrowed, curious. "Who's your sadist friend?"

Sherlock gave him an uneasy smile; that hadn't been quite the reassurance he'd been hoping for. "I'm not _looking for_ anything of the sort. There were some unfortunate discoveries at the family estate out in the country when I was younger and Mummy had a trusted therapist flown in. I got asked a lot of vague questions, but it wasn't difficult to fill in the gaps and see how closely Myke was watched for awhile afterwards." Sherlock shrugged. "We never really talked about it. I saw a few things once. It didn't matter to me. He started behaving the way Mummy and the rest wanted him to, and I didn't, so I was pegged as the more dangerous child."

"Ahh, brother dearest." Jim's smile lost some of its warmth, but it didn't disappear completely. "Now there's the greatest masterpiece of parochial finery I ever did see. Perhaps someday we'll put his knickers in a twist with this neat little trick." He winked, probably thrilled to have learned this morsel of information about Mycroft. It was filed away in the storeroom of Jim's mind and would reside there until useful.

"He wasn't always such a stuck-up, straight-laced, boring twit," Sherlock commented bitterly. It was still a sore point that his brother had completely changed sides almost overnight. "You would have liked him before someone sucked his heart and soul out, and all of his sense of fun." He shook his head; he had a few theories about what had happened, none of them proven conclusively, but all of them hadn't improved his feelings towards his family.

"That's all past." Sherlock rose to his feet. He was impatient for _something_ to happen. "You said we have a drive ahead of us. We should get going."

Jim hopped to his feet, dropping the matter a little too quickly. If he hadn't known about Sherlock's not quite picture perfect family, then he was sure to be curious now. If he _did_ know the finer details, or at least some of them, then he wasn't letting on.

He clapped his hands together. "Right you are." Jim laid his fingertips at the back of Sherlock's shoulder, using the touch to steer him away from the kitchen counter while he quickly sent off a text. "Sebastian will have the car ready by the time we get to the lobby."

Sherlock didn't react to the touch other than to move to the entryway. He tugged on his new coat and pressed the elevator call button. A thought occurred, tracing a slight frown across Sherlock's brow. "Did you leave Sebastian locked out all night?" While he wasn't keen on the idea that the man had walked in on the sight of them on the couch, being denied access for the entire evening might cause him to draw uncomfortable, if accurate, conclusions.

Jim raised his eyebrows as if there could be no other answer. "Yes," he said simply. Jim donned a coat nearly as big as himself. The lift chimed and they stepped in. Jim folded his hands in front of himself and rocked contentedly on his heels, the picture of nonchalance.

"I'm surprised he didn't storm the building, convinced I'd killed you." It had been a valid concern. They'd been playing with live steel, and accidents did happen.

"I said I would call if I needed him. I didn't call. " Jim still seemed unconcerned that his bodyguard had left him in danger, even if he was following orders. "And here I am, still alive, and much the better for it," he shot a quick grin at Sherlock. "You seem abnormally concerned with my bodyguard. Anything I should know?" Jim's was lilting, his eyes were teasing.

"He's abnormally fond of you, and I'd rather not have to deal with a sniper gunning for me by accidentally knocking his idol to the ground and smashing him to pieces. I have a feeling he wouldn't just leave it at a bullet to the head." Sherlock's gaze hardened as he tried to pull himself deeper into the drug-induced sense of calm and well-being. He didn't want to be reminded of his lapse of judgment and control, or just how much the experience had felt like a chemical high.

Jim shushed him with a tsk as though the idea weren't based on solid evidence. "If Seb murders you, for murdering me, I'll have him murdered from beyond the grave. We'll all go down like Romeo and sweet Juliet." Jim waggled his eyebrows. The notion of posthumous murder, for Moriarty, wasn't entirely unthinkable. "Besides, he's your bodyguard too, now." Jim's smile widened.

"I don't think a threat of being murdered after murdering me would dissuade him. He'd view it as a bargain." Sherlock tilted his head to peer down at Jim, affecting an air of disappointment. Sebastian wore his heart, along with his devotion, on his sleeve. He was easy to predict. "He resents my intrusion, other than the fact that it makes you happy."

"He does. But as long as I'm alive, that will be enough for him." Jim smoothed his suit. Sherlock's presence at his side was a constant snub at Sebastian, and that put Sherlock in an awkward position. Jim, however, seemed happy enough to exacerbate the problem, taunting Moran when they had the opportunity, saying flat out that he would kill Moran if the man tried anything with Jim, and then very suggestively locking himself and Sherlock away for the night without interruption. Again, it begged the question on how Moriarty managed to ensnare him so thoroughly in the first place if this was how he was treated now. "Are you curious to see how far he would go to accept you on my authority alone?"

"Somewhat, although I have my suspicions. He's ensnared enough that I think he'd do whatever you asked, if you implied that it would please you. I'm more curious at how you managed to secure such mindless devotion," Sherlock admitted, stepping out of the lift as the doors opened with a chime.

"Some people are simply devoted to greatness," Moriarty said airily, staring ahead. The elevator came to a stop, the doors opened, and they were off. A slender black limousine waited for them on the curb. The man who'd been their topic of conversation waited, leaning on its side. He held a practiced expression of disinterest as they approached, opening the door for his boss and his guest. Moran was professional, but he did not have the air of subservience about him that often came ingrained in or put upon by hired attendants. It was replaced by one of confidence.

Sherlock gave him a nod before slipping into the backseat. His spite for the man had subsided for the time being. As fulfilling as it had been to get some measure of petty revenge on _someone_ , if he was stuck in this situation for a long haul, antagonizing the man wasn't going to help matters. Moran wouldn't ever help him against Jim, but Sherlock wasn't going to go out of his way to give him a personal vendetta.

"I think it's more than that." There was an undercurrent of gratitude in the bodyguard. "I think you gave him purpose."

Jim's lips spread into a slow smile as he took the dark leather seat across from Sherlock. "I said it before, you take people apart…and I make them into something new." Purpose. What a dangerous thing to be given by a man like Moriarty.

They heard Moran shut the driver's side door and then they were pulling away. Jim leaned back into the cushion. "Relax. We have hours before we arrive."

As if he could completely relax. Sherlock had already seen the results of what happened when he dropped his guard too far. He licked his lips and settled back into his seat, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. The blank fabric held no answers.

"We have hours before we arrive, but that time is allotted. If you want us to practice, you need to teach me the mental exercise first."

"Then your first task is to _relax_ ," Jim stressed, lowering his head and fixing Sherlock with a stare. "Don't think about Moran. Don't think about where we're going. Don't think about where we came from and what you left behind. You need to be here, now, and nowhere else."

"I _can't_ relax," Sherlock snapped, irritating flashing briefly across his features before being swallowed up by the serene haze. Even artificially detached, pieces of him were still wound tight. "That's why I do this. To _try_. To feel things just a little less when I think about them. That doesn't mean it stops."

"When you play the violin, you lose yourself in emotion, isn't that right?" Jim asked. "But, when you're in the middle of an experiment, you lose yourself in it wholly, don't you? Hours pass and they seem like minutes. All you can think about is the work, what stage it's in, what the outcome will be. Interruptions from the outside world are only irritation. You become completely focused. You find a state of elation in that focus, don't you? In that moment you are a virtuoso performing your talent and nothing could be more _right_. That's the feeling you're looking for. And you get there…" Jim bent and pulled out a simple glass tumbler from the mini fridge. He laid it on the section of table between them, "…by focus."

Sherlock turned to watch Jim set the glassware on the table; time still seemed slightly stretched from his perspective. Slender fingertips hesitated for a breath on the smooth surface of the tumbler, edges reflecting and catching light as Jim's hand retreated. Pale eyes followed the motion back to its owner, finally settling on Jim's face. "I only focus on things that catch my interest, and even then... I've been finding it rather difficult to concentrate."

Jim steepled his hands under his chin and nodded slowly. "It'll be harder for you now. You'll want to focus on your inner turmoil, whatever you're doing. Unless I'm wrong, it's barely all you think about now apart from the times I'm keeping you distracted. But, I think that with enough practice, you'll learn, and it'll help. You are after all somewhat accustomed to distancing yourself from emotion." Jim's lip turned. "Although that may have more to do with you not feeling the appropriate emotion for the given circumstance in the first place."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Keep at it and I'll have plenty of appropriate emotions." He turned his gaze down to the glass; Jim's features, when combined with his words, weren't helping with his efforts to stay calm and put together. Sherlock exhaled slowly, eying the glass and running through his knowledge of optics to try to distract himself.

It wasn't terribly effective. Optics, in abstract and by itself, wasn't a thrilling subject.

"Sherlock," Jim's voice softened, not with pity, only with calming intent. "Stay in the present. Stay on this glass. Sit back, make yourself as comfortable as you can. Let your heart rate slow. Let your breath calm. Don't pay attention to me. Let this glass be the point of focus you use to ignore me, the sound of the car, the shapes outside the windows, everything in the world, but this glass. You have one goal, and that is to take in everything about this glass as it is, right now. No deductions, just know it as it is. Notice its roundness. Notice the way the light glints at its rim. Notice the ridges in its side. Its density. Its hardness. Its myriad of color as it bends the image of the reflected objects around it. Use it to anchor your thoughts here, and only here."

It was, perhaps not so strangely, easier to sink into a light trance with the morphine still in his system. Jim's voice, when softly narrating unimportant concepts, was actually quite pleasant to listen to. The slight lilt and timbre pulled at the portions of his mind that noticed such things, hearing it more as music than as dialogue. It faded slightly to the background, dark velvet curtains framing the play of light and shadow upon a transparent frame. Sherlock's breathing slowed automatically.

"Good," Jim continued softly. "There will always be interest there, in the depths of this glass. If you find your mind wandering to another subject, and this will happen naturally, gently nudge your attention back to one aspect of the glass, then another, and another. If you find your attention strongly pulled away by another object, an emotion, anything, then make note of it, give it a label and nothing more, then move your attention back to the glass."

Sherlock had been fully expecting this to be boring. It was, in a certain sense; the urge to look away and find something else to examine, along with stray thoughts, popped up in a steady stream. His mind was accustomed to operating on overdrive that it resisted any attempt to slow down. Each time, however, the low murmur in the background pulled him back into the center. Sherlock wondered briefly about the tangents between this and purported cases of hypnotism before the thought slipped through his fingers, lost somewhere in the dark as his attention snapped back to the tumbler.

"When you feel you have come to know everything you can about the glass, let it go, and discover it again. Imagine forgetting what you have just known, the moment has passed, and you must stay in the present sense of knowing the glass. Knowing it now, and now…and now." Eventually Jim fell silent. His voice trickled out like the end of a stream, flowing almost unnoticeably into nothing it happened so subtly. He let Sherlock go on like that, only speaking to nudge his thoughts in the right direction if his eyes wavered.

The state had persisted long enough to become stable. Sherlock's gaze occasionally flickered but immediately drifted back, calmly locked onto the glass in a dreamlike state. Even the gentle swaying motions of the car didn't seem to touch his focus.

Part of Sherlock noticed the voice in the background was gone, but it didn't seem important.

Slowly, Jim sat back to watch. They had been going for thirty minutes already, and with his guidance, in spite of Sherlock's doubts, he was doing marvelously well. That had been the case for Jim, too, when he'd begun the experiment.

Many people said that in sleep, anyone could take on the appearance of innocence. Jim would say that sleep made people simply look unconscious. Instead, he would argue that it was concentration. Watching Sherlock, whose whole being narrowed down to one singular focus, he found that he was not wrong. Jim found it breathtaking.

Sherlock hung suspended, unaware of where he really was or how much time had passed. Everything had narrowed to a stable point of numbness and quiet. Even his breathing and heartbeat seemed to sound softer, fading into background noise if Sherlock didn't pay specific attention to it. It no longer seemed important to know why the glass needed such focus - everything was simply _there_ , cut apart like a movie frame and frozen in place, a perfect snapshot.

When an hour passed, Jim knew that Sherlock would have no trouble catching up, and rapidly. His eyes shone with excitement as he moved from his chair to rest on one knee in front of Sherlock. His presence went unnoticed until he gently laid a hand on Sherlock's knee to draw his mind out of its submerged state.

Sherlock's focus flickered and abruptly shifted from the glass to the hand on his knee. The presence didn't seem alarming in the slightest - not the sudden appearance, nor the warm weight of it. This object was no less interesting to examine for its lack of refraction. Light and shadow played across long, delicate lines, darkness pooling in the little valleys beside the knuckles and flowing in the space between each finger. Sherlock stared, calm and still through the continued trance.

Jim's lips spread into a slow grin. Sherlock was _good_ at this. He flexed his fingers and drew them over Sherlock's knee, slowly, ever so slowly, raising them through the air to touch his lips. One by one they slid over Jim's soft skin and his scar, until Sherlock's eyes rested there. For one glorious moment in time Sherlock's attention rested wholly on Jim without the handicap of of anxiety, of fear.

Sherlock didn't show any signs of waking from the trance; his dilated eyes stayed focused on Jim's mouth for a few minutes before moving, tracing over nearby features in contemplation. He might as well have been enjoying the aesthetics of a Grecian statue. His lips were parted slightly as his gaze drifted over the contours of Jim's face, pausing at the delicate sweep of his eyebrows before locking eyes.

Sherlock lost himself in brown so dark that it began to approach black, drowning in the color.

In return, all expression melted away from Jim's face. His smile slid into loose, barely parted lips. His eyes stared unblinkingly back at Sherlock and into cool depths he had longed for so long to see up close. They became locked that way. Jim sank into the moment, a true temptation for him, something he never wanted to let go. He let it draw out for as long as he could, mapping every line and texture of Sherlock's face and the subtle changing colors of his irises.

Eventually, Jim steadied himself. "Sherlock," he said calmly.

Sherlock's gaze flickered towards Jim's mouth, taking in the movement and the sound but not the words. Part of him recalled that it had been a sound from an indeterminate time before. The lines closed together and the voice ceased again.

Sherlock stared for a moment, unmoving, before his fingers reached out to touch the edges of Jim's mouth. This focus was different; the glass hadn't truly moved.

"Now you're breaking _my_ focus," Jim whispered, the delicate muscles in his lips barely moving. He could bring Sherlock out of it, but such a rarity was this moment, this attention, that he didn't want it to end. Every reaction Sherlock had had prior would indicate that if he returned from his state of suspended judgement with his hand on Jim's lips, he would be disturbed. Still, Jim needed to push his boundaries. The detective was far too comfortable in them.

"Sherlock," Jim's voice rose. "Time to wake up."

The voice sounded again, causing Sherlock's fingertips to still as it got louder, then fell silent again. There was some property that he hadn't discovered yet, something that triggered the phenomenon that he hadn't noticed in his study. Sherlock leaned forward slightly to get a better look, still utterly calm and detached as his fingers explored again. He pressed down slightly, noting the way the flesh gave way.

Jim's small, wet tongue licked over the pad of Sherlock's finger. It tasted of salt and skin, and knowing it was Sherlock made it delicious. Quickly, he calculated his options and their variable outcomes until he settled his own rational mind.

Let it never be said that Jim Moriarty could not resist temptation when called for. He reached up and snagged Sherlock's wrist, bringing it down to the man's lap. Then, with the other hand, held his fingers at Sherlock's temple and snapped. "Sherlock. Come back."

Sherlock's gaze followed his wrist until a sharp sound startled him, too close to his ear for comfort. Sherlock flinched and blinked rapidly. His mind raced to catch up as he took in Jim's hand on his. One finger was, for some inexplicable reason, damp. His eyes narrowed as he glanced up at Jim. "What did you do?"

Jim raised his eyebrows. "You weren't aware?" He removed his hand from Sherlock's, but didn't pull away otherwise. "How much do you not remember? You've certainly accomplished our focus goal. Quite a natural, actually," Jim's lips spread again. "You've been meditating for over an hour. Your attention moved from the tumbler to myself when I moved to bring you out of it. You touched my mouth. I licked your finger."

Sherlock's eyes lost focus for a moment as his mind finally caught up, compiling all the recorded data from the time he'd been caught in trance. His features tightened as his examination of Jim played back in bits and pieces. Sherlock felt angry, tricked, even knowing logically that Jim hadn't manipulated his actions. The smaller man could have done much worse than simply lick his finger, in that state. "I remember now." His voice held a note of accusation. "You didn't try very hard."

Jim smiled cheekily. "Ah, correction, I tried _very_ hard. You have no idea how distracting _you_ were." Finally, he sat back on his heels. "But let me make it up to you. Remember, I wanted to show you the beginnings of my little experiment. The goal, the ultimate goal, is to practice on myself. I'm going under next, and I want you, through physical means, to force me out of it."

That caught Sherlock's attention. "Force you out of it physically, through pain?" Surely that wouldn't be difficult. Sherlock was familiar with the fragile points of the body from his martial arts training. If Jim was after pain, he could deliver. "I take it you want me to work up to increased levels slowly to test your threshold point for losing focus."

"Yes, that would be best," Jim chided him with a not very subtle amount of sarcasm. "I want you to know where the tipping point is, precisely." There was a sly air about him. "So I can break it next time."

Jim rose and settled back on his chair. He toed off his shoes and tucked his feet under him. He allowed his shoulders to relax. "I'll need roughly ten to fifteen minutes. Then you may begin." He cast one last, fleeting smile at Sherlock and then turned his attention to the glass tumbler still sitting between them.

Sherlock took the opportunity to observe Jim's progress towards slipping under. He had little idea what he'd looked like while stuck in the meditation exercise.

Jim must have practiced the technique several times before; he didn't seem to have to struggle to get the right focus. His attention was well and truly away from Sherlock, poured entirely into the glass container between them as his breathing gradually slowed to an even rhythm.

It was difficult to tell how deeply Jim was under by his eyes alone; their coloration was so dark that it was hard to correctly gauge the size of his pupils from too far of a distance. Sherlock waited until Jim's breathing had remained steady for several minutes and the lines of his face relaxed into an open expression before reaching out. "Jim," he said quietly and touched one of the hands folded in the man's lap.

The smaller man did not respond. His eyes did not waver, even in the tiniest of motions. His breathing did not change. His warm pulse under Sherlock's hand remained steady. Jim was sufficiently focused. By his own estimation the amount of time it took him to go under was a little short. It indicated he was getting better at this if the estimate had been based upon previous tries. If that was true, the progress was also going quickly.

Sherlock kept a close eye on Jim's face as he grasped the man's hand, pulling it closer. He started small, pinching regular bits of skin with fingertips, then nails. Neither seemed to provoke a reaction. Sherlock tilted Jim's hand back at an awkward angle, putting a mild amount of stress on the wrist joint and tendons. Nothing.

He trailed fingers up Jim's arm until he found the hollow of his elbow. Holding the limb straight with one hand, he applied a small amount of pressure to the sensitive point with his thumb.

Jim still didn't respond. His eyes remained on the glass. His breathing remained steady. Even with sudden pressure on the ulnar nerve, trapping it between Sherlock's fingers and the bone, he gave no sign of distress. No reaction at all. Clearly he already had some practice at this. 

Sherlock pressed a little firmer. He grunted when Jim still showed no response, impressed despite himself. Normally that much discomfort would have someone squirming to get away.

Sherlock moved sideways, slowly shifting Jim's position until he could untuck one of the man's feet. His fingers sought out the fragile point between the last two toes, a little dip where a major nerve lacked the normal amount of protective, cushioning muscle. He applied pressure very carefully, slowly increasing over time.

It wasn't until Sherlock was pressing down with considerable pressure that a muscle in Jim's lip twitched. His breath hitched, became slightly more labored, but his gaze didn't break and he didn't attempt to move. That amount of pressure on the point should have been a shock to his nervous system.

Sherlock was unduly impressed. Normally hitting that nerve with swift and intense pressure was enough to cause the victim to scream. Many passed out from the pain, and a few occasionally died from shock if hit too hard.

Sherlock released Jim's foot and moved upwards. His fingers curled, and he pressed into two pain points at the same time: one beneath Jim's jawline and one in the hollow underneath his collarbone.

Jim drew a sharp, shallow breath. The muscle and tendon in his body jumped under Sherlock's hands, involuntarily trying to tighten and block the pain while Jim's mind remained elsewhere. Sherlock was no amateur at this method of torture. There would be bruises over his skin afterward, and when he came out of the meditative state he would certainly feel it then. Still, Jim's focus did not break.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration. It would be difficult to reach a greater threshold without more limbs or some sort of tools. They were at the point where something more than bruises was a real possibility, and one that Jim wouldn't be too happy with.

Sherlock shuffled closer still, drawing Jim's foot back into his lap. He leaned in, then pressed the nerve points on Jim's foot and jawline again, adding a bite to the mix. A tang of copper hit Sherlock's tongue as he sank teeth into Jim's shoulder.

Finally, Jim gasped. His eyes flicked to Sherlock's dark head over the bone in his shoulder and hissed. It was a moment more before the _pain_ registered, and then Jim was shouting. His body thrashed and his voice screeched. His legs kicked out and his arms tangled in Sherlock's and suddenly they were on the floor. 

Sherlock let go of the pressure points as soon as Jim shouted, but the smaller man's reactions were too quick, instinctual. Sherlock recoiled and tried to protect himself. He attempted to pull back, wrapping his arms around himself to prevent retaliation, but he couldn't get far; Jim's hands held onto his clothing like talons. He could see a smudge of ruddy color seeping into the collar of Jim's shirt.

When the spasm released its hold on Jim, he was left panting. Color had rushed to his face as well. His hands were still locked in Sherlock's jacket. The residual pain inflicted on his nerves was evident in his face.

Jim should have been angry, even if he'd asked for it. He had more than enough means to exact revenge on Sherlock. At any moment he was going to call for Moran and stop the car. Together, the criminals would find a nice little place in the woods and see how loud they could make Sherlock scream. But instead, amid his slowing gasps of air, Jim was grinning.

"Hadn't accounted for the sight of _you_ as my torturer," he laughed. "Still, distracting as that was, I'm improving." That idea ignited a whole new thrill over his countenance.

"That was more than impressive," Sherlock finally said when it appeared that Jim _wasn't_ going to seek revenge. "Most people would have started screaming once I reached your foot. You handled multiple points at once. Some people faint at just one." He shifted backwards, trying to move off of Jim and put some distance between them, but Jim still had a tight grip on his clothing.

The man underneath him languished in his praise. Jim's head wobbled back and forth on his neck, soothing his aching muscles and enjoying the moment. It only made him look like a snake. "Mmm," he agreed. "Most people aren't me. I need full control, or the trick is useless. I'll have it soon enough."

Finally Jim sat up on his elbows, releasing Sherlock's clothes enough to do so. He brought them almost nose to nose as he righted himself. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a talent for torture?"

A flush of color rose in Sherlock's features. He cleared his throat. "Not really, no. Pressure points were taught in the dojo I studied in. It was just a normal part of the curriculum." Sherlock backed up slightly, neck curved in an awkward arch. "Unfortunately, if you need practice with more stimuli, I don't know that much more can be done without incurring actual damage. I can only put pressure on so many places at once."

"I'm sure something can be improvised." Jim followed Sherlock's movement, seeming only to be raising himself back to a position more comfortable yet conveniently well within the detective's space. "Would you like to go again? You picked up a state of focus quite easily. I promise not to distract you with anything painful." Jim smiled wickedly.

Sherlock's discomfort ratcheted up another level. His body didn't know how to respond, features briefly going pale before he blushed again. All of the signals were getting crossed and his high wasn't lasting as long as he'd counted on it to hold. Jim was too close, in mind and body. "I'm uncertain that's a good idea."

"Really?" Jim asked. A subtle look of knowing came over him. "I….suppose you could sit in the back of this car with me, alone, for the next hour or so…with your drug wearing off and without the focus of meditation." He shifted his hips suggestively, only getting more comfortable on the floor. A small smile played over his lips. "I wonder how we'd pass the time."

A stricken expression passed across Sherlock's face and he turned his head away. He didn't want to think about that possibility and now, ironically, the scenario wouldn't leave his mind. Everything that had happened in the flat that morning replayed like a broken record, time looping in on itself. One had drifted over his pocket, seeking out the reassurance of the supplies he'd brought with him. "I have more."

Jim rolled his eyes and sighed. "Booo-ring. You can do that anytime. And it requires no skill," he drawled. "You know you have the potential to take meditation further, the way I did." He rested his back against the chair and cocked his head at Sherlock, laying down the challenge.

"Yes, I could," Sherlock agreed cautiously. "But this keeps you away from me precisely _because_ you find it boring. I don't need to worry about what you'll do, because you won't want to do anything."

"And you would let your fear of me stifle your mind's ability to grow, to attain a wholly self sufficient level of calm, to _master pain_?" Jim was suddenly angry. He spat the words and bared his teeth at Sherlock before he reigned himself in. "Tell me that isn't worth the small level of discomfort if takes to be in my presence."

"I don't trust either of us," Sherlock replied coldly, turning his head to keep an eye on Jim. He wanted at least some warning if the other man decided to get violent. "It's not about your mere presence, it's about what you want and that I was weak enough to be manipulated into it once. I'm not about to hypnotize myself into being easy prey, trapped in a car with you for two more hours."

"Oh baby, it hurts when you don't trust me," Jim pouted with an air so over the top it was ridiculous, as though he were mocking his own pain. He dropped it the very next moment. "Or yourself, for that matter. Do you have such little faith in yourself?" he asked. "That you would condemn the act you let yourself carry out because, somehow, resisting that desire means resisting _me_ when in fact you're only resisting your _own_ desire." Jim leaned in, eyes narrowed, his voice dropping. "Your mind is so muddled as it is, perhaps you should hypnotize yourself for no other reason than achieving clear, objective thought."

Jim's words only reinforced the memories that were surfacing. Sherlock glared into those dark eyes, lip curling in anger. "I'm well aware of my faults, even if I rarely admit them." He'd had them listed off to his face all too often. "I don't need to place myself in a vulnerable position to achieve objective thinking."

"Then I suppose you'll never learn the art of surviving torture. Truly, what a shame," Jim sighed. "Especially living with me, in my line of work…. If not for the sake of interest, then for that of necessity. Seems like an awful lot to pass up to me." He inspected a fingernail.

Jim raised a challenging eyebrow, but deigned not to fall into the trap of arguing perspectives and the semantics of 'torture'. "Then, perhaps it would be prudent to learn. After all, you can't hope to overcome the problem without facing it head on." Jim had promised not to hurt Sherlock, not this early on in his attempts at least. He'd claimed he wasn't a sadist, but besides his sexual advances, it would still be worrisome to be left defenseless and alone with all of his mad focus directed on Sherlock.

Sherlock's pale eyes narrowed. He launched himself at Jim without warning, snarling and reaching for the pain points he knew so well.

With a yelp of surprise, Jim fell back. Then he gave a real screech of anguish as Sherlock found the point in his neck, followed quickly by the one in his arm. They grappled on the floor of the car. There wasn't much space for it. Jim's teeth flashed and he kicked out wildly, aiming for Sherlock's ribs.

Sherlock grunted in pain as the limb connected, knocking the breath out of him in a flash of pain. His objectives abruptly changed; Jim wasn't immobilized by the pain. Sherlock wanted him pinned down and neutralized. He twisted and writhed in an attempt to stop the man's violent thrashing.

When he'd wedged Jim between himself and the bulky seat of the car, Jim had to be held down by his weight. Fortunately the space was compact enough for the criminal to be trapped. "Get off me!" Jim snarled. "Don't _make_ me stop the car."

"Shut. Up," Sherlock growled, keeping just out of reach of Jim's teeth. Now that he had the smaller man trapped, Sherlock didn't know what to do with him. He hadn't thought that far ahead, simply acted on impulse after Jim's words had pricked one too many times. "Just... shut up."

" _Make me_ ," Jim hissed, bucking under Sherlock in an ineffective attempt to dislodge the man's sturdy weight. "You don't want me to push you; you want life to be _easy_? You want to run away and hide? What do you wish I would do? Really, Sherlock, what is it you want me to be? Quiet, is that all?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus. He _tried_. Jim still fought underneath him, defiant muscles twitching under his hands and knees, and the man _wouldn't shut up_. Something snapped in Sherlock, buckling under the emotional weight far easier for having been broken before.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. He pressed Jim down against the seat even more firmly, his gaze trailing over Jim's form in predatory lines, lingering on the bite mark on Jim's shoulder and the stitches gracing his mouth.

He wanted to rip into the smaller man. Eat him alive. Strip the words out of his mouth until his forked tongue had nothing left to speak with.

"You're not answeri-!" Jim's words died in his mouth when his eyes met Sherlock's and the criminal recognized something there. His lips pulled back and he bared his teeth in a feral grin. His black eyes went impossibly huge in their sockets. "Oho, yes! _That's_ my Sherlock!" he crowed delightedly, as if suddenly recognizing an old friend. " _That's_ my love!"

" _Shut up_ ," Sherlock hissed. Jim's triumphant expression was the last straw. Sherlock captured his mouth and tried to forcibly silence him. His grip on Jim's wrists became uncomfortably tight.

Their teeth gnashed together, Jim biting back with just as much force. With his hands contained he pushed his body up with his elbows, shoulders, hips, just to reach Sherlock. Between them, stitches bled. It smeared across their lower jaws and tasted of copper. And then they were kissing as much as they were fighting because Jim always had to corrupt the situation.

Sherlock snarled at Jim's attempt to gain some measure of control. He pulled back just far enough to release one of Jim's wrists and push him back down by the throat. Blood welled up from his bottom lip and dripped, ruining Jim's shirt even more. Sherlock gave Jim a look of warning, giving him one final push against the seat before tearing into his clothing.

Jim wriggled where he lie and bared his teeth, obviously not liking to be forced down, but too intent on where Sherlock was going to struggle for his life yet. "I knew you wanted me, baby." His voice was as sweet as poisoned honey. "You don't have to put up such a front for me."

Sherlock's answering expression was pure irritation. "Keep pushing me and I'll make you regret it." The buttons of Jim's shirt had given up the ghost and scattered on the floor, leaving an expanse of bare skin. Sherlock bent down to leave a mark over his ribs. Salt merged with copper on his tongue and all he could smell was skin musk and leather. Something, some last piece of self-awareness, made him pause.

Jim was groaning in pain, but writhing under him still. The teeth marks left on the small man's sinewy skin were angry and deep and red. Jim caught on to Sherlock's hesitation and it spurred him to shouting with words like sparks of fire in the detective's face. "I will rip you apart and put you back together again! I will burn you and cook you and eat you from the inside out if you don't get me first!"

Even with heat behind them, Sherlock knew they weren't true. Being taken apart and reassembled in the way Jim desired, perhaps - but not the rest. Jim didn't really want him dead.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against Jim's chest and tried to catch his breath. He still wasn't thinking clearly, and he could feel the slow creep of dysphoria mixing with his anger and confusion as the heroin left his system.

Jim groaned in rage. "I won't stop until you make me," he seethed. "Where's my expert torturer now? All that anger, all that pain you have pent up inside you now? All that is _for me!_ You're not meant to take the high ground, Sherlock. Not you. You're too much like _me_."

Sherlock's breath left him all at once as his anger twisted into something else. He settled on top of Jim and his grip loosened. A thin trickle of blood dripped from Sherlock's mouth to pool and trickle down Jim's side as the man quivered beneath him.

Jim stopped his ranting. Bewildered, he raised his arms under Sherlock's slackened grasp and touched the man's shoulders. He had to twist his head and pull back far just enough to look at the head of dark curls lying against his chest. His lips were in the middle of forming a question when his eyes sparked and narrowed. "You're crashing."

Sherlock nodded slowly and turned his head. The steady heartbeat under his ear, like the warmth, was comforting, even as he still felt like the floor was dropping out beneath him. Sherlock's arms framed Jim's chest and he held on through the vertigo.

Small hands petted through his hair, massaging his scalp. "You've taken too much, too quickly," Jim said softly. Just like Sherlock's chemically induced mood shifts, Jim managed the same all on his own. He must be mad.

Fingers trailed down Sherlock's neck until they met the back of his collar, lingering there until they gave up and brushed over the material across his shoulders. Jim's arms wrapped around him in return.

"Would you like me to make you feel better?"

Sherlock nodded mutely. It was odd, seeking comfort from Jim. It should have felt more inappropriate. Sherlock _knew_ it was, on some level, but it didn't seem important at the moment. He just wanted the feeling to stop. Having a warm body beside him was helping. The embrace was easing things even further.

Jim shifted under him, rolling them so that they were lying side by side and he was free to move. He draped himself over Sherlock very much like the other man had done to him moments ago. Sherlock needed to feel the warmth of his body. With eyes that did not judge, Jim looked down at him. The criminal traced one finger over his cheek bone, down the line of his jaw, then his throat….over the exposed portion of his chest revealed by three undone buttons. The last one must have snapped during their scuffle. Jim's own shirt and jacket were barely hanging off him after Sherlock's attack at them. His chest laid bare, one shoulder was nearly free. He let his fingers work Sherlock's remaining buttons open, trailing his palm down the exposed skin as he went.

Sherlock's eyes closed as Jim's hands drifted over his face, then his chest. A trail of pleasant heat followed in the wake, nerve endings drinking up the contact and wanting more. Jim had the fastenings of his shirt undone now and Sherlock moved to give him better access. He was rewarded with a hand that caressed his back and pressed into the tense muscles it found there.

Jim pressed his chest to Sherlock's as he worked at the tension in his back. Jim 's hands started beneath his shoulder blades, moved down his spine, and then worked into his lower back. For as small as Jim's hands were, he was surprisingly good at this. He used the leverage of his body pressing into Sherlock's front to find the pressure he needed against his back. Jim's heart was a steady thrum against the taller man's own chest, his breath was soft and warm where his head bent in concentration over Sherlock's neck. 

This was... _different_ , so very different from what Sherlock normally expected of Jim. The confrontational aspects of the man were gone, as was the uncomfortable hunger, and what was left wasn't the calm, resigned face Sherlock had seen a couple of times over the past few days. It was warmer, more intimate in a way that didn't leave him scurrying backwards in fear, and Sherlock found himself wrapping his arms around the smaller man and enjoying the moment.

Jim pressed his face into Sherlock's neck at the movement. The smaller man's breath became unsteady for a moment as though he were fighting back some unvoiced emotion. His hands didn't stop their motion. His head only nuzzled comfortably against Sherlock's neck, an unusual, almost ticklish, kind of massage in itself. 

Sherlock's body was getting pulled in two opposite directions, and there was no question which he preferred. Jim was doing an admirable job of holding back the dysphoria from his crash, and Sherlock didn't wanted to stay behind that protective barrier. The back seat was narrow enough to make their current positions awkward, so he rolled them over. Jim was draped on top of him, but Sherlock didn't feel threatened.

For a moment, Jim gazed carefully down at him as though looking for some sign that Sherlock was aware of what he was doing. Jim must have found it because with a bit of maneuvering, he pulled them firmly atop the leather seats. The position left him straddling Sherlock's hips. He rested his palms on Sherlock's lower abdomen, with his shirt now open the touch was more soothing, and leant forward, massaging up Sherlock's chest as he went. "Just how much better do you want me to make you feel?" he asked softly when he was finally draped against the taller man. 

Guilt pulled at Sherlock. It was the conflict he'd struggled with so many times: the pleasure of the moment weighed against the deferred cost that might come. He'd never been very good at winning that particular battle; his personal history was riddled with the consequences of impulsive behavior, whether it was as serious as drugs or as minor as tearing someone apart with a few well-placed, biting words. Clever as he was, he'd never quite overcome that personality flaw.

The fight was almost over before it began. "Make it go away," he responded quietly.

Like something inhuman, more ethereal with his dark hair and creamy skin and eyes like black holes, Jim descended on Sherlock, enveloping the man in his arms and his body, small as it was. Even Jim's open shirt fluttered around Sherlock's sides like part of the cocoon. "I will," Jim whispered into his ear, warm breath and lips brushing against it. Those lips, surprisingly soft but the gash in the bottom one found Sherlock's. Jim pulled a slow, languid kiss from the detective's mouth. 

Sherlock gave in and sank into the feeling as easily as he slipped needles into his own veins. He opened, letting Jim in and shivered at the feeling of a tongue delving in and meeting his own. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was still strange and unfamiliar. Sherlock let his hands settle on Jim's waist and waited for Jim to make good on his promise.

Kissing was a strange phenomenon in the courtship of mankind. Even Jim must acknowledge that if his mind was as analytically detached as Sherlock's, as he claimed it was. But still, he sought out the strange ritual with Sherlock. Perhaps it was a psychological ploy, meant to subtly link what they were doing in Sherlock's mind to the notions of attachment, romance, love in the more classical senses. Things normal people felt. Things that should not be felt, not wholly and not without becoming unrecognizably deformed, by Jim Moriarty. Still, he sought it all the same.

When Jim began slowly rocking his hips into Sherlock's, their kiss finally broke. He moved his mouth down Sherlock's long neck. The thumb of one hand massaged slow circles into the soft muscle under his jawbone, the other did the same at his hip.

This, whatever this was, wasn't the same as the frantic early morning tumble they'd had. That had been instinctual, nearly mindless, the happenstance intersection of several factors combining to produce a moment of madness that had immediately been regretted, at least on Sherlock's part. This, despite the ulterior motive, was being consciously chosen. It was all the stranger for that fact, that a few small changes would take Sherlock from fighting against this with everything he had to lying compliant under Moriarty, even arching into the touches.

It wasn't love, no. Even so, delicate filaments were being spun between them, touches and looks and experiences that were weaving together into fragile bonds of attachment. A quiet sound of desire escaped Sherlock as Jim moved in teasing lines along his neck.

Deft fingers undid Sherlock's trousers and began to palm his slowly hardening erection through his pants. Jim's lips and teeth and tongue found a sensitive spot at the base of his neck and lingered over it. The smaller man kept his body as firmly pressed to Sherlock's as he could, making sure everywhere they brushed together sparked warmth and sensation.

When Sherlock hardened to the point of his liking, Jim's mouth began a slow descent down the length of his long body.

Prickles of alarm shot through Sherlock as Jim moved lower. He struggled to raise himself slightly on his elbows, watching Jim with wide eyes. Despite his lack of experience, he wasn't completely ignorant of the sexual behaviors and acts found in humanity. He knew what Jim was thinking of doing. Sherlock's breathing became shallow and rapid.

Jim's eyes flickered up to meet his, sensing the hesitation. "It's alright," he said softly. His hands petted along Sherlock's sides. "I won't hurt you. I'll fix it, the dysphoria you're feeling. I'll chase it away. It's perfectly safe." He bent his head and brushed his lips over Sherlock's skin, nuzzling into the quivering muscle below his navel. Jim's hand still stroked up and down his shaft through the troublesome fabric of his pants.

Sherlock shivered, still uncertain. He licked his lips. "I've never done this." It was unnecessary to say as much; they both knew this to be the case, but the statement had pushed its way out to hang in the air between them nonetheless. Part of Sherlock's mind was fixated on teeth, the way they'd bitten and torn into each other so often since their lives had intertwined. It felt like the height of stupidity to let Jim's mouth near something so delicate and sensitive to pain, even though he'd let the man near his jugular only moments before.

Jim's eyes, however, remained steady on his. "That's alright," he said in that same unnaturally soothing voice, "I don't mind. I can walk you through it. Every step of the way, I'll tell you my intentions." He knew Sherlock didn't trust him yet, but Jim was gazing into him with those huge eyes, his expression open.

Sherlock knew very well that the offer didn't make things any safer; Jim could easily say one thing and do another. Still... there was something hypnotizing about the smaller man. He looked like a picture of innocence at the moment, all boyish honesty and warm brown eyes. It was a very convincing lie.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

An unnatural warmth seeped into Jim's expression. He might have smiled for a moment before he dipped his head again. It might have been a trick of the light.

His fingers caught the hem of Sherlock's pants and pulled them down, exposing the heated flesh. "I'm only going to lick first," Jim said softly. The heat of his breath sent tingles along Sherlock's delicate skin. "Up the dorsal vein and over the glans," Jim whispered in an eerily clinical voice and then did as he said. His tongue slid out and ran up the top of Sherlock's length from the base to the mushroom head of his glans, swirling around the end.

Sherlock jerked, a strangled cry getting caught in his throat. The actual experience was both close and nowhere near what he'd been expecting. Warmth and wetness were only logical, but the sensation was far more intense than it should have been. Sherlock realized he was holding his breath and let it out with a groan as Jim's tongue made another pass over skin that had never endured this sort of attention before. He wondered, briefly, if the intensity had something to do with the fact that he wasn't in control. Or perhaps the sense of danger.

"Quite a strong sensation, isn't it?" Jim asked calmly between licks. "You can see how this is more often preferable to a handjob." He might have been smiling against Sherlock's over sensitized skin, his lips pressed to the flesh as he murmured his words. "I'm going to take you into my mouth now. I'm going to suck you down and swirl my tongue around the head of your glans and over your lower erectile column. This will be a very sensitive area." Jim was definitely smiling. "If you need me to slow down, you can say so." Then he made good on his word and with one last lick, his lips wrapped around Sherlock's length and Jim _sucked_.

The bottom of the world dropped out.

Sherlock writhed until Jim's hands caught his hips and held him still. For someone who'd never experienced such things before, the sensations were completely overwhelming. His body didn't know whether to arch into it or try to retreat. Sherlock's pulse thudded in his ears and his attention contracted to three points of warmth - the hands holding him down and the wet heat enveloping him. He couldn't think. He couldn't think at _all_.

Jim must have known, but still he continued sucking. His head moved up and down over Sherlock, his tongue swirling and massaging exactly as he said it would. His fingers pressed firmly into the flesh of Sherlock's hips. The slow bobbing motion of Jim's head was hypnotizing. His lashes were lowered, for once his eyes were closed. Without their huge, black depths he looked almost like another person entirely.

Sherlock started babbling. He couldn't even hear what he was saying; sparks of ideas and expletives were voiced in low whispers as endorphins flooded through his system. True to his promise, Sherlock couldn't even feel the strands of dysphoria anymore, not with what Jim was doing to him. Sherlock's hands drifted to Jim's head of their own accord and tangled fingers in messy, dark hair.

Jim's hand worked down the front of his own trousers as his mouth worked Sherlock. He undid them and pulled his own erection free, stroking them in time. He curved his neck and stretched his shoulders as Sherlock's hands ran through his hair, a definite sign he was enjoying the touch even if it was destroying the careful work of the gel that had kept his hair in place. His breaths were coming as fast as Sherlock's now, panting hot through his nose over the base of Sherlock's erection with every thrust while he increased the pace.

There was a tense sensation, similar to a spring coiling in on itself, familiar enough that Sherlock recognized it and surfaced a little. "Ssss." He panted; his mind couldn't seem to connect to the right words and voice them. Sherlock's fingers tightened their grip on Jim's hair and tried to pull him back. "Ssst, Jim, _Jim_ , ssstop," he finally managed.

With an obscenely wet sound, Jim's mouth popped off the head of Sherlock's erection. He hovered there, mouth open, bottom lip just barely touching the tip, every shuddering breath tangible over Sherlock's wet skin. Jim paused his own stroking, waiting.

A shudder ran through Sherlock; his mind and body were warring with each other again. He was afraid to let go, even with the rest of him crying out for release. Jim's breath on his skin only made the torment worse. "...I don't think I can." This had the feel of addiction; Sherlock could almost feel hooks hidden in the euphoria. He'd be pulled back again and again, unable to stop.

"Let it _go_ …," Jim whispered, his voice strangely high, so close to a sound of pleading. "My dear detective," sickly sweet lips brushed over the head of his cock, "let..yourself….go." The tip of Jim's tongue lolled forward to just barely touch Sherlock's flesh, a tease so light, so subtle, but so much more pronounced for it. 

Jim's teasing caused Sherlock hips to buck instinctually. Jim's lips parted and it was too late, far too late. Sherlock couldn't gather up the willpower to fight it again. He moaned and pulled Jim closer. Even now, drunk on lust, Sherlock knew he'd stumbled into another trap.

Jim's fingers dug furiously into the flesh of his hips. His head sunk down on Sherlock, lips and tongue sucking him so deep, to tight that it almost hurt. Jim seemed just as desperate as Sherlock at this point, but he'd given up on stroking himself. All his attention was for the man spread out beneath him.

One of Sherlock's hands left Jim's head. He bit down on his own palm, muffling a scream as he came unraveled. His vision went black around the edges. All of the energy poured out of him and Sherlock collapsed, boneless and panting, against the seat.

Jim took only a second more, pulling the last drops of liquid from Sherlock's flesh as he jumped up onto his knees and worked his fingers over himself. Three quick strokes and he followed Sherlock over the edge, not caring about the mess he made over his fine leather upholstery. Jim's whole body shuddered above Sherlock. He tipped himself forward when it was over and fell against the taller man, his face pressed into sweaty black curls of hair.

Sherlock slowly came back to himself and refocused, drifting in the black space behind his eyelids. His body felt completely relaxed and unresponsive, sunk into lethargy. A thin film of sweat covered his skin, making him feel sticky and chilled but for the portions of himself covered by clothing or Jim's body. He released his hand and opened his eyes to examine the half-moon indentations he'd made on both sides of his palm.

Behind darkened windows the landscape rolled by them, they sky, dotted with big, billowing clouds, the tops of trees, too many to be anywhere but a very rural area.

Jim was like a dead weight over him. He hadn't moved or opened his eyes since he'd collapsed, but his breathing was deep and steady. Finally, he opened his eyes and turned his head, craning to see Sherlock's face.

Something had changed. Sherlock glanced down at Jim, all big dark eyes, and didn't immediately feel an urge to push him away. It took a couple of tries to get his limbs to respond, but he finally managed to slip his hands under Jim's arms. He pulled the smaller man up on top of him until he was blanketed. One arm wrapped around Jim's waist.

It took the smaller man a moment to react. He'd been caught off guard by the action, his eyes running all over Sherlock's face, reading his expression. Eventually Jim nestled more comfortably over the other man. His chin rested on Sherlock's collarbone, his eyes blinked lazily up at Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock had gotten Jim to shut up.

Sherlock stared back. His expression was guarded and clinical as he let his gaze wander over Jim's features. He stroked one hand through disheveled hair, smoothing the mess he'd made.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. What did people even say after such occasions? He cupped the smaller man's jaw and traced his thumb over one cheekbone, watching the change in Jim's expression. 

Perhaps he didn't need to say anything, after all.

Jim seemed content with just that. His eyes slid shut. Though he remained still, his expression mostly impassive, he seemed to glow under Sherlock's attention. His arms tightened against Sherlock's sides. His chest expanded in a deep breath. It seemed Jim didn't want to break the moment either, didn't want to bring it back to their harsh reality by speaking.

Sherlock was content to rest like that, watching Jim while the car bumped along down the rural roads to their destination. There was still a pool of guilt gnawing at a corner of him, but it was smaller than before. Quieter. 

London wasn't just a world away, it was another lifetime, another dimension. He could reach out and touch it with his mind, replay it in vivid detail, but it would evaporate like being woken from a dream.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on this chapter for descriptions of torture. Also culturally sensitive issues.

Sherlock was shaken awake, the comforting arms around him weren't covered in a comfortable jumper, but a designer shirt stained with blood.

Dark eyes were smiling down at him like he was the most brilliant thing in the world. Somehow, he had captured the interest of this madman, and nothing could shake it. How long could this last? How long could Sherlock hold out against Jim, and when he caved, what would become of him then? Jim smiled like he knew all the secrets in their future. He became more certain of it every inch further Sherlock fell.

"We're almost there," Jim whispered, tangling his finger in one of Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "We should..." He eyed the tatters of Jim's clothing, remembering the buttons scattering on the floor. "...get cleaned up as best we can." It would most likely be an exercise in futility. One would have to be a moron to glance at them and not know what they had been doing.

Jim smirked. For all the fastidiousness he normally put into his clothing, he didn't seem overly bothered. With one last press of lips to Sherlock's shoulder, he sat up and lazily stretched his back above the detective. He caught Sherlock's eyes watching the line of his body as it arced.

With a sigh Jim pulled himself off the taller man and zipped up his trousers. He redid the few remaining buttons he had and didn't even bother trying to fasten his jacket. He took the seat opposite Sherlock and swiped his fingers through his hair, only somewhat managing to make it lay down again.

Sherlock had slightly more to work with. He managed to lever himself upright and fumble the buttons of his shirt closed. After tucking his shirt in and pulling his trousers up, he still was mussed but slightly more presentable. Sherlock had the feeling that of the few people who would see them at their destination, only Sebastian would truly care about how they looked, and for different reasons.

Jim relaxed back into his seat and crossed his legs, giving up on his appearance entirely. Whoever they were seeing at this warehouse, whoever worked for him, obviously did not rank high enough to merit any consideration about it from Jim. Instead, the little criminal watched Sherlock put himself back together.

Another five minutes and they pulled off the highway, making their way down a long, winding gravel road, forest encroaching on all sides.

Sherlock couldn't even guess at where they were. He hadn't been paying much attention to where they'd been going during the ride. There was so much land in America that civilization could thin out quickly and without much warning, making it difficult to predict where you were by landmarks alone.

The car finally rolled to a stop. Sherlock glanced at Jim for a moment, then opened the door and stepped out into the fresh air.

Jim followed at his heels. A gust of icy air hit them as soon as they were beside the car. Sherlock was fortunate to have found his new coat. The temperature had noticeably dropped several degrees since this morning. Jim pulled his own bulky wool coat over his shoulders but didn't bother to pull it around himself enough for Sebastian not to notice his state of dishevelment.

The gunman looked noticeably sour as he stepped out of the driver's side to join them. His expression turned even more foul when he saw the way Jim's hair was mussed, nearly standing on end, his torn clothing, and the very noticeable stain of bright red blood at his collar.

For his part, Jim did not seem to notice. Instead he was gazing out into the dense forest where an expansive building lie nearly hidden among the trees, eyes alight with the speckles of sunlight that came through the branches.

Sherlock ignored the death glare that Sebastian shot his way; there was nothing he could do about the bodyguard's feelings on the matter, and he didn't need to worry about reprisal so long as Jim's attachment towards him held. Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat against the chill and shifted his attention to Moriarty.

"Should I bother asking who you have in there?"

"Someone who's had quite a lot more experience with meditation than we do," Jim said with a smile as he led the way.

Sebastian fell into step behind them, radiating displeasure with every yard they advanced. His eyes bored into the back of Sherlock's head, then Jim's. It was clear that though he was upset with Sherlock, he really blamed Jim for what went on in the back of that car. There was no question he had heard some of it. Probably a lot of it. Jim's angry shouts and screams for sure. Then Sherlock's.

Sebastian's stare was like an itch between Sherlock's shoulder blades - an irritation that couldn't quite be reached and removed. Hopefully the man would calm down over time. Sherlock didn't think he'd be able to stand it if the bodyguard hovered and moped and made himself a nuisance for however long this portion of his life was going to last. Not without snapping.

"The objective is to measure their levels of resistance, then. So why ask me to bring the heroin?"

"To test the subject’s resistance to it too, of course," Jim said carelessly. "I'm not only interested in pain." He continued as they walked. "The Dalai Lama has been working with neuroscientists over the last decade, lending them Tibetan Buddhist monks for their research into the brain and the effects undergone through meditation. Interesting as their findings were, the area of study I had in mind was a little too…extreme for their tastes."

Sebastian walked around them to get the door. Every motion he made was a tactical maneuver, keeping behind them to survey the surrounding area, making sure they weren't followed. Now, he would receive the brunt of the attack if one came unexpectedly from inside the warehouse.

Sherlock followed behind Jim as they stepped through the door after Sebastian. The echo of sound and a slight draft suggested a wide open space, but the inside of the warehouse was pitch black. Sherlock's eyes couldn't adjust quickly enough from the daylight outside. There was a click as Sebastian hit a switch and florescent tube lighting high above them began to flicker and pop to life.

Jim strolled into the open space, his footsteps echoing off the tall tin walls. The space was set up with one long hallway running through the center of the building with exits in the front and back. Along the sides were doorways, presumably leading to other workrooms. It was a cold, sterile environment made of white metal walls and smooth concrete flooring. They were greeted only with silence. 

Jim shrugged. "He hasn’t been very lively lately."

Sebastian moved off to the side and picked up a radio. "Kelly, we're on base. Get your arse down here."

Barely ten seconds passed before the door on the opposite side burst open and a little bald man, just pulling a lab coat over his shoulders, scurried inside. "Sorry, I'm sorry!" he called nervously down the hall, rushing to meet them. "I just didn't expect you so soon.

Sherlock blinked and began to quickly size up the new acquaintance. It made sense that Moriarty would have left the facility in the care of at least one staff member, but this man wasn't what he would have expected. He had the introverted, socially awkward air common to certain types of scientists, but he was missing the usual small signs of cruelty present in those that tested on live subjects. His hands were meticulously clean as he dry-washed them in an expression of nerves.

"Dr. Kelly," Jim introduced the anxious little man, "I'd like you to meet my associate, Dexter Hurst, our resident chemist." Jim grinned a falsely professional smile, gesturing to Sherlock. Everyone in the room surely saw through it. Jim wasn't even trying. "I do hope you're set up for the tour, at the very least?"

"Oh! Yes, yes Mr. Andrews, of course," Dr. Kelly was quick to reassure Jim. "We had everything ready for you yesterday." It was becoming more and more clear that the man feared for his life around Moriarty, but it was not the desperate fear of a man whose fate was inescapable. Whatever his role in this was, it was something he believed he could walk away from, alive, if only he met Moriarty's demands. His use of 'we' indicated that he had a colleague, or perhaps an assistant. Possibly only one, probably not any more than two.

"Good, good," Jim waved his hand dismissively, then spoke to Sherlock. "Kelly lives here while we've been running the project. He oversees the needs of our subjects and attends to their health. He's been reasonably efficient while I've been away. Really, I don't know what I'd have done without him," Jim threw him a bone of praise, but somehow, even in that there was a warning edge to it causing Kelly to wring his hands and accept the comment only with a large amount of trepidation.

"I see." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Kelly's work being termed 'reasonably efficient'. "Well, shall we have a look? I need to know what we're working with."

This entire dance was futile. Sherlock knew that aside from himself, Sebastian, and Jim, in the end nobody would be leaving this building alive. Moriarty wouldn't be the sort to leave loose ends lying about. When he was satisfied with the results of his tests, the subjects and staff would be terminated alongside the project.

Sherlock knew he should have felt... _something_ in response to that, but he didn't. It was the same detachment he always felt. He knew on an objective level that Dr. Kelly and his patients were all living humans with everything that that implied, but there was still a sense of unreality; they hadn't crossed the line into _personhood_ for Sherlock, which made it extremely difficult for him to even attempt to summon some level of empathy for their plight. It was the same dilemma that made him such a poor interrogator when dealing with the friends and family of victims at times - all he felt was frustration over the information they might be keeping from him, not sympathy for their loss.

Jim led the way down the hall, Kelly nervously keeping pace at his side. "It's time for you to see what a real master in the art of meditation can withstand, don't you think, Dexter?" The florescent lighting was stark against Jim's normally glittering eyes. In this long hall they seemed dull, huge as ever, but devoid of animation.

He stopped in front of one of the reinforced doors and Kelly hastily went to unlock it. It brought them into a second room with supplies, a computer terminal, and monitoring equipment. Against the back wall was another door, locked just as securely as the previous, but with a small window at eye level. Judging from the interior, the rooms were intended to dampen sound.

"Get ready," Jim said to Moran with a small curl of his lip. "We'll need a demonstration." Moran nodded, showing subtle signs of satisfaction, either at being directly addressed by Moriarty or being allowed a task he had surely performed for the man with pleasure in the past. Likely it was both.

While Moran selected tools from the far wall and Kelly backed as far out of the way as he could, Jim took Sherlock to the window. Inside, sitting on a small cot with closed eyes and a bandaged arm, was a man. He did not seem to notice their presence watching him from behind the glass. With the few remaining wraps of clothing he wore, he was unmistakably an elder monk. The curious thing was, through the flecks of dirt on his skin and the lightness of his graying hair, Sherlock could plainly see he was Caucasian. 

Sherlock watched through the window with open curiosity, his gaze following Moran once he entered the small room. Moran wasn't openly smiling, but there was a glitter in his pale eyes that suggested that he knew what was going to come and was looking forward to it. Sherlock was reminded of when he'd seen such an expression before - a different time and a different face, but having the memory drudged up by the bodyguard was vaguely disconcerting.

The monk sitting at the center of the room still appeared serene. If he'd taken note of Sebastian's presence, he wasn't acknowledging it in any physical way.

"Although I am quite sure he would like us to stop these experiments, he's never attacked us. It goes against his moral code," Jim said calmly as he led Sherlock in to follow Moran. He closed the door behind them, leaving Kelly.

Jim crouched before the man. He did not open his eyes nor show that he was aware of their presence at all. "In fact, ignoring us seems to be his favorite way to pass the time. But we have spoken before. I am aware that he can hear me." Jim smiled. "Kenney, I would like you to meet my colleague, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective."

Surprisingly, the man's eyes opened. His head raised, and soft green eyes looked past Jim, staring into Sherlock.

Sherlock stood, transfixed. This was... uncomfortably different from anything he'd experienced before. He knew very well what was to come. He'd never been much bothered by what little he'd seen of Mycroft's experiments with animals, back when they were younger. Nor was he troubled by any of his own experiments with human bodies - their owners were no longer around to voice complaints about the treatment of their remains.

Despite the many things he'd seen in his short lifetime, Sherlock hadn't ever witnessed the torment of another human for the sake of experiment. Street violence was drastically different from sticking a man in a cell and seeing how far you could push him.

The old man's gaze held Sherlock's. He remained calm, a strangely soft quality about him, untouched by resentment, even as Jim sat in front of him. "'Kenney learned many things growing up in Tibet, didn't you? Wealthy family, graciously giving their youngest son a nontraditional blessing to take up another, decidedly un-Western, life. Even a new name. Jampa' means 'loving kindness', doesn't it? The Tibetan name for the Buddha Maitreya." Jim's lips spread into a slow grin as his eyes searched his captive's face. "Dear me, Sherlock. I think he likes you."

Kenney, or Jampa, nodded slowly to the tall Englishman standing in the corner of his room, still never breaking his gaze and never looking at Jim. Jim seemed delighted by this. He rose to his feet and leaned into Sherlock's side, much too close.

"Oh yes, he definitely likes you." 

Sherlock's gaze flicked uneasily between the captive's unnerving stare and the madman at his side. "What difference does that make?" he asked. Sherlock could see Moran moving in the background, laying out the tools he was going to use. Jim was close enough to touch now, almost pressed into Sherlock's side.

"None." Jim's eyebrows rose and his smile only widened.

When Moran was ready, Jim stepped in front of the old man again. "You'll want to focus now," he said softly. "Otherwise, this is _really_ going to hurt." When he stepped out of the way again, the man's shoulders sagged and his eyes closed once again. He was out.

Jim's eyes met Moran's and the large man moved in.

He worked his way up, as Jim had asked Sherlock to do for him in the car, first using only his fists, then moving to a heavy baton. The frail man was knocked back with the motions, but apart from the pull of gravity held over his body, he did not react.

Sherlock watched in fascination. Even if he had felt a drive to stop the sequence of events, there would have been nothing he could do. Moran have proven earlier that he could overpower Sherlock, and he only took orders from Jim. Jim was focused on getting the data he needed. There was a very slight chance that Jim would call things off if Sherlock played off the smaller man's emotional obsession with him, but even that was doubtful. More likely he'd simply look at Sherlock with disappointed eyes and continue on his course.

"How many times have you done this before?" he asked, ignoring Moran's grunts of effort and the sound of a baton forcefully hitting flesh. "And how far did you push it?"

"Three," Jim said, his eyes half lidded watching Moran work. "I'm not only interested in his ability to withstand the pain, but also how far I _can_ push him before a survival instinct kicks in. Each time I put his life in danger, within seconds of ending, and still he has not moved to save himself. First was drowning. Second, I stopped his heart. Third, I nearly had him beheaded, a scare tactic. The power of fear is so strong, most come out of it at that point. His mind has become truly remarkable."

Moran moved on from the baton, this time focusing his attention on specific points of the body with a customized pair of pliers.

Sherlock followed Moran's progress as he moved from point to point, the muscles in his arm bulging slightly as he clamped down with significant force. Still the monk showed no reaction, absorbing the abuse as if he were a living rag doll. Portions of skin blossomed with purple and red.

"Is that what you're worried about? That your concentration will break at some point and the pain will keep you from slipping back into trance?" Sherlock asked. "What are you afraid of?"

Jim's head tilted back and his eyes met Sherlock's, looking up from under long lashes. "Are you really asking me what I'm afraid of? Or, are you asking what I hope to accomplish here?" His eyes still held their humor. "Control, my dearest detective. It's as simple as that. We may have Kenney's body here in our hands to do with what we will, but we will never have his mind. Right now, he has all the power he needs over us. If he were the kind of man who were so inclined to put work such as mine into motion, there is not a thing we could do to him to force him to give up his secrets. With or without his capture and death, the work would go on. He is….untouchable." Jim looked down at the little man, hunger in his eyes.

Sherlock watched Jim's gaze return to Jampa, saw the longing, and understood. Moriarty wanted to be uncrackable, untouchable, a living cypher that nobody would ever break. He wanted assurances that, if he were ever to be captured, he wouldn't be his own undoing. "And so you train and endeavor to reach the same level of skill that he has, but you said that all of his associates cracked under the right pressure. You simply had to find the right button to push to get them to lose their concentration. For the others, it was the instinctual fear of death. You simply haven't found Jampa's yet, and you haven't tested yourself either."

Jim nodded slowly. "Out of five monks, he was the most practiced. During every session of focused attention, with and without varying levels of pain influence, I've run them through a high field strength magnetic resonance imaging scanner. In this way I was able to measure hemodynamic changes within the brain rapidly enough. He looks docile, but right now his brain is lighting up brighter than a Christmas tree. I'll continue the experiment until I either find his limit, or I exhaust his will to live. But he has proven to me this," Jim glanced to Sherlock, "It can be done."

"He's spent his life training. You believe you can accomplish the same level in less time?" Moran had stepped up the intensity once more, and a faint sheen of sweat covered his skin as he exerted himself. "You demonstrated an impressive amount of control from the training you've done, but only up until a number of pain points were all activated at the same time, and that was without me truly damaging you. If you're trying to train against the possibility of what will happen if you're ever captured, the interrogation team won't be so light."

"No, they won't," Jim agreed. "But I've only been practicing for several weeks. And, not to sound immodest, but with a mind like mine…." he flashed Sherlock a cheeky grin. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I had hoped, in fact, that you might join me in this endeavor." Jim's fingers trailed up Sherlock's arm as he turned to the detective. Over his shoulder the sounds of flesh being torn and the grunts of Moran were more than audible. A particularly loud smack came after the sultry drop in Moriarty's tone.

"I wouldn't mind learning the technique, but I'm not enthusiastic about the testing process," Sherlock said, letting his gaze drop to Jim's hand on his arm. It was better than watching the alternative. Somehow it was _more_ disturbing that the monk was letting himself be ripped apart without a sound or motion of protest than it would have been had he made a fuss. He could hear blood spattering on the floor, underneath everything else - a wet thick dripping as a puddle steadily grew under Jampa. "I'm not really a sadist in the physical sense of the term."

Jim continued smiling into Sherlock's eyes, but he spoke to Sebastian over his shoulder. "Moran, don't kill him just because you're upset with me."

Immediately, the sounds stopped. When Moran stepped back into view, his forearms were covered in blood. Though he was clearly wound tighter than ever, something in his eyes looked sated.

"Now go and fetch the good Dr. Kelly before he bleeds all over our shoes." Moran stalked out of the room. "I'd like to show you the test results of our five subjects. Unfortunately, only two remain, but I've kept the findings of the group since the deceased three indicated results closer to that of the control." Jim rested his fingers on Sherlock's shoulder, turning him away to follow. 

Sherlock let himself be guided, but not before turning to glance at what had become to the other man in the room. It was difficult to recognize him beneath the thick red coating, crumpled on the floor, still but for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Part of Sherlock was enthralled; it was a crime scene moments before everything went quiet, everything still fresh and untouched, the colors at their most vibrant before they slowly dulled and darkened to a murky brown.

There was a pleasant aesthetic pull to it. Sherlock found one more piece to an old puzzle he'd put away long ago, came one tiny bit closer to understanding. He licked his lips and shook himself out of the daze. "Yes, fine. Let's look at the test results."

Jim watched him out of the corner of his eye with the kind of smile that had looked more pleasant on the Mona Lisa. He did not comment.

Dr. Kelly rushed past them with gauze and a medical kit, looking more harried than ever and a little green in the face.

When Jim and Sherlock stepped back into the main hall, Sebastian rested there against the wall, smoking and watching them as they made their progress down the hall. He hadn't cleaned the blood from his hands.

Jim took Sherlock to what looked like a control room of sorts. Two large monitors were set up to split between five rooms. Only two were occupied, and one showed Kelly tending to the worst of Kenney's wounds.

There was a worktable at the center, over which Jim had spread out numerous graphs showing the neural activity of his subjects at various states of rest, focused attention, and open monitoring meditation.

Sherlock accompanied Jim to the work table and began to look over the data that sprawled across the surface. After a few minutes it became plain that his attention was clearly split - in between his examinations of the graphs, Sherlock kept sneaking looks at Sebastian when the man thought he was unobserved. The detective kept his head down, but his pale eyes tracked the bloodstained hands and the smoke that twined around Sebastian's fingers from the cigarette. "Two of them broke very quickly. Was that fear-triggered, or did they break from pain?"

"Pain, technically. But ultimately, it's all about the fear," Jim said, pointing to a detailed description of the process in another document. "They simply feared worse pain." He smiled at his work before he caught Sherlock's gaze drifting again. Jim's eyes darted, and for a moment the whole room fell into a breathless pause. "Sebastian…" Jim drawled, "Come here."

The bodyguard stilled. The end of the cigarette burned slowly between his lips as he refrained from drawing breath. He'd seen Sherlock's gaze, and he'd seen Moriarty notice. He pushed off the wall, each step heavy and deliberate as he crossed the room to stand in front of Jim.

Jim looked him over, cocking his head with a little smile curling at the corner of his lip. He reached out and took one of Sebastian's wrists, lifting it slowly and bringing the man's knuckle to brush across Jim's own cheek, leaving a stripe of red behind.

The effect on Sherlock wasn't subtle. His eyes were drawn to the bright crimson like a magnet, dilating noticeably as Sebastian's fingers trailed across Jim's cheek and stained his skin. Sherlock suddenly didn't know where to look, caught between skin dripping with red and the two men's expressions as they looked at him. A wash of color stained his own cheeks as Sherlock found himself without sufficient words to diffuse their attention.

Jim bent forward.

Sebastian's eyes snapped to his employer when he felt wet warmth engulfing his fingertip. The man's breath hitched and the cigarette dangled from his slack jaw as he stared at Jim, who had sucked his forefinger into his mouth and was staring up at his tall sniper.

Jim let his eyes draw closed as his cheeks hollowed, the red wetness over one curving concave as he did so. The motions of his tongue swirling around Moran's digit were visible through his tight cheeks as he slowly pulled back.

Sherlock's eyes went darker still, barely a ring of grey remaining. He was distracted enough that he didn't even bother to hide his interest - couldn't. The experience was completely disconcerting as even he wasn't certain what he was attracted to: the blood, either of the men, what they were doing, or all of them combined. He couldn't even say what he wanted to do in response, other than move closer.

Sherlock moved sideways, circling to get a better view. Jim let Moran's finger go and Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat.

The front of Moran's trousers were obviously tented, but he didn't move. He barely breathed.

Jim smiled. His teeth were stained red. Finally Moran exhaled, a desperate sound, eerily similar to the one Sherlock had made. Jim turned his head to the detective, teasingly licking his teeth and bending over his shoulder to offer him his mouth.

Sherlock couldn't refuse. The thought wasn't even in his head. Everything had narrowed down to sly, dark eyes and a predatory, crimson smile. Sherlock closed the distance between them in a heartbeat and pressed their lips together. His hands came up and roughly tangled in Jim's hair. The tang on Jim's lips wasn't quite enough, and Sherlock's tongue quickly delved and retreated after getting a taste.

Jim moaned, turning from Moran to face Sherlock fully. His hands caught in Sherlock's curls just as roughly, kissing with teeth as much as tongue. He brushed up against the detective, gasping in delight when their lips parted for a moment only to return again.

Sebastian swallowed at the sight. He was breathing hard, physically restraining himself as he watched them. Jim paid him little attention beyond the smears of blood he'd gotten from his fingertips. His back was to the bodyguard, Sherlock bent into him as they kissed. The splashes of coppery red didn't last long between them. Quite a lot of it was spread over Jim's lips and face. He reached behind himself and grabbed one of Moran's arms again. 

Sherlock had already licked a line of crimson from Jim's cheek before he saw the smaller man bringing Seb's hand around again. His attention snapped to the limb, want coiling in his gut. White noise filled his head. He tried to snatch Moran's arm from Jim; he didn't want to _share_.

Moran tipped forward as Sherlock pulled him in and did the same. The motion caused Jim to be pressed between them, back to Sebastian's front, trapped by Sherlock's grip on Seb's bloodied arm. As much as he'd wanted it, Moran seemed to have a moment of panic as Jim came into contact with him. His whole frame tensed, nearly ready to jerk his arm back out of Sherlock's grasp just to put space between himself and Moriarty again, but Jim didn't seem to mind, and that was the only thing that kept Sebastian still.

Jim smiled, leaning back into his bodyguard, stroking Sherlock's hair as the man bent over him, captivated by Moran's crimson soaked flesh.

Sherlock's gaze lingered on the spatters and drips that formed an irregular pattern along the edges, the small strip of clean skin where the blood had been rubbed or sucked away by Jim. The crimson was still fresh, still _vibrant_ , an indescribable shade he'd never seen before. Paintings and photographs didn't capture this, and it was certainly different than the dark, dull stains he regularly saw when called to a crime scene.

Sherlock spared a glance for Moran, noted the tension in his features, and knew that this wouldn’t draw any repercussions. Not in the moment. Not with Jim here. A hungry look took hold behind Sherlock's eyes and he slid one of Moran's stained fingers into his mouth. The taste and smell of copper and musk was suddenly everywhere.

Jim's lips spread wide over sharp little teeth as he watched. Sebastian shuddered behind him from the sensation and Jim let his head loll back against the man's shoulder. He took hold of Sebastian's free hand and pulled it to wrap around himself, stroking across his jaw and down his neck leaving red smears everywhere it went to blend with the old stains at his collar. Sebastian curled his fingers and stroked Jim's skin wherever he could, taking full advantage of this one, extraordinary, freedom with Jim wrapped in his arms.

Sherlock continued to languidly clean the hand in his grasp, lapping at the skin and watching the little shivers wracking Seb's frame. Sherlock glanced at Seb's expression and laughed, voice low enough that it was almost a growl. Jim was gazing up at him with rapt attention and the sight just made Sherlock want _more_. He'd almost finished with Moran's hand and the red streaks on Jim's face and neck were next.

Jim reached out and with heavy lidded eyes and a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, drew him in. Jim wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and let his head fall back, opening himself up for the detective's inspection. Sebastian was like a rock behind Jim, a steady, solid presence holding him up for Sherlock.

Sherlock was aware, on some level, of what was going on and who the other men were. It didn't seem to matter at all. They were willing. Sherlock's mouth and tongue wandered on Jim's skin, and he smiled briefly at the sounds it coaxed out of the smaller man.

Jim writhed, pushing into Sherlock's front and pulling Sebastian into him from behind for the security of leverage the man provided. Jim wrapped his legs around Sherlock's and brought their hips together, trusting Sebastian to hold him up which Sebastian did without protest. The man's blue eyes, bright as ever under the florescent lights, closed tightly and he bent his head to Jim's shoulder, obviously trying to hold himself together.

A loud clatter came from behind them, followed immediately by Dr. Kelly's gasp of shock. "Oh. …oh my god."

Sherlock was partially jolted out of the reverie by the noise. Movement was limited with Jim's legs wrapped around him, forcing Sherlock to twist awkwardly in order to glare at the interruption. He must have made a sight, as Dr. Kelly paled as soon as he got a look at Sherlock's mouth. "Get out."

The little doctor took one step back, then another, then tripped over himself as he turned and made a run for the hall. Jim's laughter bubbled up and spilled out of him, echoing after Kelly's footfalls until the sound of a heavy door slammed at the other end of the warehouse. It died down when Jim reached out to turn Sherlock's cheek back to him. His eyes were alight with glee, his whole face nearly painted in blood, and he was smiling like they'd just shared a secret.

Pressed as closely together as they were, Sherlock couldn't help but see Jim and Seb at the same time. The blond man was still curled around and supporting Jim, bent until their faces were at the same level. Sherlock's gaze flickered between the two and he licked his lips.

Seb looked up, his eyes locking with Sherlock's. He would have looked angry, jaw clenched, brows knit together, blue eyes flashing, if it weren't so obvious that his expression was one of suppressed lust. He was holding himself back with extreme effort, barely daring to touch Jim apart from where the man forced him to. He feared Jim's reaction, even with the man pressed between the bodyguard and Sherlock like he was. It was hindering whatever potential he had to join in their fun.

Sherlock stared into the bodyguard's eyes for a long moment. Even with the limited amounts of interaction they'd had, Sherlock could read portions of him like a book. It wasn't just the man's obsession and emotional attachment to his employer; there was something else there, interesting depths that Sherlock couldn't quite reach into and examine.

It didn't hurt matters that Seb had been the indirect source of all the blood, and one hand still wasn't clean. But it was still madness.

Sherlock looked at Jim, a question burning in his eyes. He stroked a thumb down Jim's cheek, then reached over and painted a line across Seb's mouth. After a moments hesitation, he kissed the blond man.

Seb stiffened for the briefest moment, and it was another before he was kissing back, but once he was, he did so with everything he had.

Jim's arm snaked across Sherlock's shoulder for the leverage he needed to watch the two. Moran was touching his prize, but Sherlock had initiated it. And Moran was already his, even if Jim had never collected on it. Sherlock had decided to for him. In this moment, Moran became _theirs_. Slowly, Jim's lips curled. His fingers caressed through Sherlock's hair while he was locked with the sniper. He leaned in and bit softly at Sherlock's ear lobe. "Poor, poor Seb, left all alone. Do you think he deserves our pity?" Jim whispered against dark curls.

Sherlock was going insane. Something had happened somewhere along the line. Between the copper in his mouth, the bodies pressed against him, and Jim's voice in his ear, there wasn't even an internal struggle. His curiosity melded with his newly-discovered lust. "Not pity, no. He brought me a present. Perhaps he deserves a reward for the thoughtful service."

That delirious throaty laughter of Jim's sounded softly against his ear. One by one, Jim unwrapped his legs from Sherlock's waist and turned around in Seb's arms. This time Sherlock was pressed to his back, as he made sure the detective stayed put. Jim tilted his head and lowered his lashes as if considering Moran. He smiled, slow and sweet as he traced his fingers over the large man's cheek bone. "Indeed, that was very gracious of you, Sebastian…"

The man was breathing hard, still frozen, falling into Moriarty's eyes while the little man drew him closer with his fingers. Jim leaned up and brushed his nose against the sniper's, then pulled the man down to meet him at his own height with a firm grip to the back of his neck. "I think a reward can be arranged." Jim whispered, eyes staring through Sebastian as his tongue slithered out and licked against the man's lower lip right before Jim's mouth followed. Instantly the tension left Moran as he sagged into Jim, letting out a strangled sound. They might have toppled to the ground if it hadn't been for Sherlock.

Sherlock clung to both of them, eyes glittering as he watched Sebastian fall apart. The sound the bodyguard made pulled at Sherlock, and his hips rocked against Jim. The smaller man was still kissing Seb, but his neck was bare and open for the taking, still streaked with traces of blood. Sherlock tightened his grip on them both and bent to taste him, sucking hard enough at one point to leave a mark.

Jim moaned obscenely, one hand reaching back and clutching Sherlock's hip to pull him in, the other clawing into the back of Sebastian's neck while they kissed roughly. Apparently that was all that was needed for the sniper's hold on himself to break. His pent up longing and aggression came through with every swipe of their tongues and clack of their teeth crashing together. There was nothing tender about it and Sebastian seemed to like it that way. He rocked into Jim from the front as Sherlock did the same from behind until they had the criminal firmly pressed between them. Jim's clever hands darted to Sherlock's belt behind him, unbuckling it swiftly and then going for his trousers.

Sherlock was nothing if not a quick study. He nipped at Jim's neck and straightened, just enough for his fingers to seek the fastenings of Jim's clothing. Their hands both reached skin at the same moment and Sherlock groaned. It was difficult to move with Seb pressing in as close as he could get, but Sherlock managed to slide his fingertips from Jim's stomach to the more demanding flesh below, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants and wrapping around his length.

Jim broke the kiss to gasp. He threw his head back and Sebastian latched onto his neck, intent on digging into his flesh hard enough to leave an immediate bruise. Jim finally freed Sherlock of his trousers and stroked him from behind, an awkward angle, but that didn't hinder those resourceful hands. Sebastian's landed at Jim's hips, helping Sherlock by pulling the smaller man's trousers down over his thighs. Jim was making the filthiest noises now that his mouth was no longer occupied. He was by far the loudest of the three of them, his voice echoing through the open doorway. 

Sherlock hissed and bucked against the hand stroking him. He hadn't given much considering to the human voice as an erotic stimulus before; he hadn't really pondered _any_ of this. Sherlock hadn't thought it relevant, having convinced himself that sexual attraction was a biological annoyance that could be easily ignored and denied. The floodgates appeared to have opened after having a taste, and suddenly there innumerable things to experiment with and try, backed by over a decade of suppressed drives. Sherlock slid his hand over Jim's length, drinking in the sounds the smaller man was making and watching Sebastian finally indulging some of his desire.

The gunman slid his hands around Jim's thighs, somewhat hindered by Sherlock pressing against his back but was able to grasp enough so that he could pull Jim into him as well. Straw colored hair swept over Jim's shoulder as Seb finished the mark on his neck, leaving a deep red welt behind, and talked kisses up his neck. Jim grabbed Sebastian by his hair and twisted a handful of it to pull the man off him. He then returned the bite, not nearly as considerate to the flesh under his teeth. His mouth came away with fresh blood moments later.

Sherlock gave a strangled cry, watching Seb grimace in pain and the bright crimson that marked his skin after Jim released him. Sherlock's hand tightened around Jim and he pressed forward, his hand joining Jim's and pulling Seb closer. The bodyguard was bent at an awkward angle as Sherlock leaned in to taste the wound Jim had made. He lapped up the blood, moaning against Seb's skin as Jim writhed up against him.

The blond man gasped at the pain, but he only drew Sherlock closer, smashing Jim between them. The shorter man was giggling under his breath. If he hadn't looked the part of a madman before, he certainly did now with his jaw painted in red. Something wet and slippery slid over Sherlock's cock. Jim had spit in his hand while the other two men were locked together. With his free hand, Jim reached up to grasp the back of the detective's neck. " _Sherrrrlock…._ " he hissed in a whining, lilting tone, "I want you to fuck me."

Sebastian groaned at the words.

Sherlock started, releasing Sebastian in surprise and pulling back so he could look at Jim with wide eyes. He paled slightly, desperately trying to think. His body didn't want to comply and fought to keep his blood and focus on the hand gripping his cock and the warm flesh in front of him. "I..." His voice rasped, and all the words he wanted to say kept slipping through his fingers. "I haven't- ... I don't- ..."

"Shh…." Jim leaned back and kissed his cheek, lips sticky with blood. "It's alright. I'll do the work. All you have to do is hold on." Jim's voice was a purr. His hand never ceased its deliberate rhythm against Sherlock. "And Seb will help us keep the pace, won't you Seb?" His dark eyes drifted to blue ones, lips pulling back to show teeth.

After a moment to collect himself, holding Jim's gaze, Sebastian nodded. A bead of sweat ran down his tanned cheek, falling into the divot of one deep scar.

Sherlock was torn between lust, curiosity, and an undercurrent of fear. He knew the general mechanics of how sexual intercourse worked, having studied biology and anatomy, but this was all unfamiliar territory. He had little idea of what to expect, and he knew that it was fairly easy to damage one's partner in the act Jim was requesting. Sherlock shivered as Jim kept stroking him, dark eyes turning back to him now that Sebastian had agreed to comply. Sherlock met Jim's gaze, still uncertain.

"Look at me, just watch me." Jim pushed his hips back, dragging Sherlock's erection against his heated skin. A smile, unusually soft for Jim, found its way to his features. "You won't hurt me." He added more saliva to his hand, and it probably wasn't the best, not for what he was suggesting, but it did ease the way between the pads of his fingers and the hardness of Sherlock's length. Jim was naked only from the waist down, and barely even that. His trousers pooled around his knees and his suit jacket was pulled around his waist and held up by one of Sebastian's arms.

Sherlock watched. His breath caught as Jim pushed against the sensitive organ and his hips tilted on pure instinct. Despite Jim's request to be the receptive partner, Sherlock felt like _he_ was the one being overpowered. Jim's smile didn't do much to soothe that feeling away.

Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat as Jim's hand started to change the angle and the smaller man pressed back slightly. There was a feeling of flesh giving way and Sherlock moaned as the head of his cock was suddenly surrounded with heat and pressure. He shuddered and closed his eyes.

Jim's voice sounded with his as his body sank back onto Sherlock. His back arched and he whined like the noise had been wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. It was not one of pain, though surely he had to have been feeling some. Jim sounded euphoric.

Sebastian couldn't take his eyes off the smaller man. He bent over Jim, one hand to his cheek, drinking in the criminal's expression even though Jim's eyes had slid shut.

Small, slender fingers grasped Sherlock's hip and pulled them flush together.

Sherlock gasped as he was pulled forward until he was completely sunk into Jim. He tucked his face against Jim's neck and just tried to breathe. He hadn't quite expected the sensation to be this intense. Jim moved slowly, pulling away and pushing back, and Sherlock suddenly understood exactly why this sort of sex had such appeal. His hands tightened their grip on Jim, enough to leave bruises.

The smaller man's breath came in pants. He clutched tightly at Sherlock behind him and curled his other arm around Sebastian's shoulders for support. His head tilted back, brushing against Sherlock's in satisfaction. His hips rocked forward and back in maddening thrusts and his body was trembling lightly. When Jim regained enough composure, his hands began working at Sebastian's belt, dragging the man forward by it until it was loosened enough to undo his trousers and free his erection. His fingers stroked delicately up the shaft and then wrapped around it.

Sebastian's eyes screwed shut. "God, _fuck_ , Jim…" He buried his face in the crook of Jim's neck.

Sherlock panted against the other side of Jim's neck as the smaller man drew him and Sebastian in. Moriarty was something elemental, trapping Sherlock and Seb with an inescapable magnetism and manipulating them thereafter. Sherlock could feel Jim's breath on his ear, hear Sebastian's voice cracking as Jim unraveled him, and through it all was the electric friction that contracted Sherlock's world to the bodies trembling with him and the heat pooling at the base of his spine. "Jim..."

Jim rocked back and gasped at the sound of his name on Sherlock's lips. "Yes, _yessssss_ …." He was mad, laughing in breaths between thrusts, voice hitching at every jolt of Sherlock inside him.

Seb found Jim's erection and stroked them together with his large hand over Jim's. The muscles in his shoulders pulled taut, overwhelmed with sensation. He could have ripped the smaller man to pieces if he'd been so inclined, but instead he was falling apart in Jim's hands. 

Sherlock clung tight to Jim, rapidly inching closer to orgasm. Jim wasn't holding back now, and his hitched laughter only made his body tighten in the most delicious, torturous way. Sherlock managed to open his eyes, taking in Seb's intense expression and Jim's blissful grin. There was still blood on Jim's lips. Sherlock murmured the smaller man's name again, voice cracking slightly, and claimed Jim's mouth when he turned his head.

Jim's fingers twined in his hair and held him there. Their kiss was sloppy albeit intentionally so with Sherlock just as intent on the blood on Jim's chin and the corners of his mouth as he was in the man's kiss. Jim was whining with every thrust now. Sebastian's deeper voice added a surreal undercurrent to the sound as he stroked their erections together, helping to push Jim back into Sherlock. Their voices sounded like a chorus around the warehouse, needy, escalating sounds that reverberated back to them in the echo of the open hallway.

Sherlock gasped against Jim's mouth and his spine stiffened; his hips snapped forward, burying himself as deeply as he could before he came in pulsing waves. He desperately tried to hold on to Jim as his knees threatened to give way.

Sebastian reached out and wrapped his arm under Sherlock's for support, catching him and pushing Moriarty between them even further in the process. Jim cried out as he followed. The feel, the _reality_ of Sherlock coming inside him, the slick feel of wetness at Sherlock's release sliding down his thigh, did him in. He threw his head back and his eyes screwed shut for the briefest moment before opening wide again. Only several more, quick, tight thrusts of his hand sent Sebastian over the edge with them. The man sought Jim's mouth and groaned as he came.

Sherlock leaned heavily against the other two. His skin felt pleasantly warm and tingling, all of his muscles relaxed, and his head was gloriously empty. He wasn't buzzing with data, trying to analyze everything as quickly as he spotted it. He was able to enjoy the moment, the echoes of pleasure and the sensation of human skin touching skin. Sherlock watched Seb kiss Jim as the bodyguard came and had a vague sense of disorientation. Everything was new and nothing made sense anymore, not even his own impulses.

Jim broke their kiss and pulled off Seb. He was leaning at such an awkward angle that he had to keep one arm around Seb's shoulder, but he turned to Sherlock. Heavy lidded and sated black eyes drew in close until they were nose to nose and Jim let them shut, a look of quiet bliss across his features. "That was _lovely_ ," he purred.

Sebastian was already putting himself together now that Jim had turned his attention from him. He redid his trousers and shifted uncomfortably in them, but he didn't move farther than that until Jim twisted, removing his arm to face Sherlock fully.

Sherlock was still in a daze, grey eyes slightly unfocused as he met Jim's gaze. His arms wrapped tightly around Jim as soon as Seb let go of them both; his balance was still shaky. Jim looked unbelievably happy, but calm instead of manic. "Is it always like that?" he whispered finally. Jim's eyes opened and Sherlock felt like he was getting pulled in, pushed under dark waters to drown. "What are you doing to me?"

Jim's smile grew wider. His eyes shined up at Sherlock like black pits. Jim could have swallowed him whole in that moment, caught in a gravitational collapse. "Giving you back your _self_." Jim's hands rested at his cheeks, thumbs curving over the high bones and stroking slowly. "Only that."

"This isn't me, it's-" Sherlock paused, scrying for the answer in the dark gaze pinning him in place. "...something new." Sherlock didn't know what it meant yet, much less how he felt about it. Jim was cradling his face, making it difficult to look anywhere else but at him.

Jim leaned up and brushed his lips against Sherlock's. "Is it really?" he whispered against the detective's lips, and then he leaned back and let his hands drop down Sherlock's body, enjoying the way they glided over his chest like Jim was still marveling over the detective being here with him. Perhaps he was. He flashed Sherlock a smile and hitched his trousers up. "Look at us. We've certainly made a mess of ourselves."

Sherlock glanced down and wrinkled his nose as he took in their disheveled state, finally feeling the cold stickiness clinging to his skin. Jim and Seb both still had blood left on them, now dried and flaking. Sherlock licked his lips in remembrance, still tasting hints of copper in his mouth. "Yes, we did. I've never had that sort of reaction before. Granted, I've not been exposed to that particular stimulus before, either."

Jim's teeth flashed. The criminal was grinning to himself as he did his best to right his clothing again, but it was a futile effort. Obviously, Jim took great satisfaction in being Sherlock's first. From the calculating look on Sebastian's face, who was now resting against the table where they'd been studying Jim's work, he'd noticed. Seb had mentioned he'd never before seen Jim show a sexual interest in anyone, yet he'd been in the man's employment presumably for some time. He had to be filing that little piece of data away and comparing it to the rest of his information on Jim. Whether it fit into the puzzle of Moriarty was difficult to determine.

"I'll be sure to remember that," Jim said, draping his tie over a sweat and blood stained shirt, "You may be inclined to explore it further."

Sherlock eyed Jim cautiously and declined to respond. He tried to set his own clothing in order and do the same with his thoughts; both were futile, but the former was far easier done than the latter. He was going to need time to process this - time and space, free from distraction.

Sherlock could feel Seb's eyes on him - could almost hear the man's thoughts clicking together from a few feet away. The bodyguard was another unaccountable factor in this, bringing additional complexity to a situation that was already full of danger. One more problem that Sherlock would have to address later.

Jim sighed through his nose in a huff. "I'm afraid this cuts our visit short," he said, still looking uncomfortable in his own clothing. "But I think we've gotten the important bits out of the way. I wanted to give you a taste of the merit and variety in my work and I have. Now, I could really use a shower. Moran!" Jim snapped, even though the man was right there. Sebastian straightened to attention. "Find Kelly. Have him clean this up. We're leaving."

"I think the variety was demonstrated quite admirably, yes," Sherlock said. "But I concur about the shower. Especially as we'll have to wait another three hours for it." Sherlock had put up with grime and discomfort before, but he preferred not to have to do so. Being stuck in sticky, stained clothing was unpleasant enough, but he was going to have the added difficulty of enduring it an enclosed space next to a madman who was feeling entirely too self-satisfied at the moment.

"Certainly not. We're showering here." Jim snapped his fingers and Seb strode quickly out of the room, his footfalls sounding down the hall. "Come." He led Sherlock to the other side where one large workroom lie unused. In the back there was a small locker room. Had there been a larger staff, this is where they would have dressed for work. One lonely row of lockers sat against the wall, only two looked like they had been used regularly. Through one end of the room were the restrooms, and the other a single, utilitarian shower stall.

The building wasn't the sort of place where a shower could be expected - not unless it used to be a warehouse designed for chemicals. Even then, the stall would have been an emergency wash station rather than an actual shower. Perhaps Moriarty had had one installed so that the staff could stay on-site. Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt again. "Which of us is going first?"

"Don't be silly, dear," Jim laughed. "We're going together. Now hurry along." He shucked his jacket, undid the tie around his neck with one swift pull and shrugged out of his formerly pristine shirt. Sebastian's growl of a voice could be heard faintly farther in the warehouse, along with intermittent sounds of Dr. Kelly who sounded even squeakier than he had earlier. 

Sherlock's fingers paused for a moment as his mind processed the image Jim's words evoked. It seemed silly to put up a fuss about privacy after what they'd done together, but part of Sherlock was still clinging to routine and old comforts. "We're not in such a hurry that I can't wait for you to be done," he countered, tossing his own bloodstained shirt onto a nearby bench.

"Says you. I fear I've put off work for too long as it is." Jim toed off his shoes and turned the water on. When it was steaming and shooting down in one hard spray, he flashed Sherlock a little smile and pulled down his trousers. His clothes were ruined. Uncaring, he let them drop in a pile on the floor. "Not that I don't enjoy making time for you, of course," he winked and stepped under the spray.

Jim stood, nude, feet apart and tilted his head back under the water, completely nonplussed at putting himself on display for Sherlock. The steady stream soaked his hair and ran in rivers down his body, mixing with the dried blood on his face and slowly dissolving it away. 

Sherlock watched the rivulets of water on Jim's skin as he stripped off the remainder of his own clothes. This was another one of those moments where appearances were proven to be massively deceiving; with his large eyes, delicate features, soft build and shorter height, Jim looked innocent and boyish. Without the devilish spark in his eyes and the vicious smile that he wore so well, no one would believe what this man was capable of.

The blood washed away down the drain with the rest of the evidence of what they'd done, leaving Jim water-slicked and smiling slightly against the spray. "What work have you put off? Or am I not allowed to inquire?"

"Come here and I'll tell you," Jim said, reaching out and taking Sherlock's wrist to lead him under the spray. "I've been on a short hiatus, this last week more than ever. You made your living as a consulting detective. I am a consulting criminal. I design crime, anything and everything no matter the scale so long as I find it interesting on some level. Fortunately, my financial empire has also thrived on certain investments in digital currency, nearly quadrupling it in fact, so I can choose the jobs I like and afford a modicum of time off every now and then."

Sherlock went stiffly, finding himself in close quarters _again_ with Jim for the fourth time that day. The detective normally didn't care much about nudity. He'd walked around his flat and other places before with hardly a stitch on, but with Jim it gave him an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability. Perhaps because he knew just how interested the smaller man was in him and that he had no reservations about acting on his interest. "I would imagine that most of your prospective clients are lacking in the creativity to present an interesting problem."

"That is why they leave the architecture in my capable hands," Jim said, sliding those hands up Sherlock's chest. Under the hot spray, the detective's curls flattened against his head and fell in his eyes. Jim swept his hair back from his forehead. He rested his hands at the back of Sherlock's neck and stared into Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock became the opposite of Jim just then. Sherlock looked severe with his hair slicked back and the usual youthful curls falling around his face tamed. 

"Getting them to _pull off_ their part in the design as flawlessly as I've planned it has always been the more difficult part," Jim muttered. For all that Sherlock was the taller of the two of them, it was Jim who was still very much in control.

Sherlock shivered as Jim's hands moved over his skin and through his hair; there was a heat left behind that had nothing to do with the warmth of the shower. Sherlock's hands clenched against the impulse to touch back. "That doesn't surprise me. I find it amazing that the world runs as well as it does currently, with the sheer number of idiots running around, pretending to have things under control."

Sherlock's gaze was drawn from the droplets of water clinging to Jim's dark lashes to the bruise rosettes marking both sides of his neck. Bruises he and Sebastian had made. They'd darkened enough that the marks wouldn't be going away for a few days at least.

An easy smile spread across Jim's face. "You like this, don't you?" he said, tilting his head. Jim would look good with those marks on his neck, nestled under the collar of the tailored suits he liked so much. Above even, if he left it a little loose. Between those and the stitches in his lip, he was going to look like he'd been in a brawl and somehow, for a man so particular about his appearance, Jim didn't seem to mind. 

Sherlock's gaze flicked back to Jim's eyes, but he wasn't embarrassed at being caught staring. "I'm not certain about a number of things anymore," he responded, neatly sidestepping the question. Jim's fingers were stroking the back of his neck again, serving as one more distraction that was both unnerving and pleasant. Sherlock uncurled his fists and tentatively placed his hands on Jim's sides.

The shorter man’s eyes slid shut. He breathed a sigh of pure satisfaction. He acted as though, with that one action and one statement, Sherlock had told him everything he needed to know. Jim took a moment to enjoy it, then slid his hands back over Sherlock's shoulders and up his neck. He wiped the blood from the corners of Sherlock’s mouth and cheeks until there was no sign of it left. 

Jim was finding all sorts of ways to claw Sherlock open and shine lights on corners of himself he’d had always preferred to ignore. Sherlock had neglected and repressed them for so long he'd convinced himself they didn't exist. He let Jim finish cleaning the residue from his face before he leaned down and let his arms circle Jim's waist. 

"I'm going to need time and space to think." That was putting it mildly; Sherlock needed to retreat and take himself apart. He'd had to reexamine everything he thought he knew about himself.

Jim's back bowed against him. The criminal's thumb traced his brow as Jim's eyes stared into him, taking him apart. Finally, the little man nodded. "I'll need to see to work tonight anyway. If you need anything, Sebastian will be on call." With one last sigh, Jim bent and shut off the water. 

Sherlock immediately let Jim go and stepped back out of the stall, dripping water onto the floor as he put distance between them. His body and mind were still at odds and in a state of mild shock, having made such drastic changes in the space of a day. Years of living at a distance and avoiding human touch weren't sloughed off so easily.

Jim found a set of towels in the nearby closet and handed one to Sherlock. The criminal dried himself quickly. His hair stood on end when he was finished, recalling to mind the look of Richard before he slicked it back with his hands as much as he could. They had nothing else but to redress in their dirty clothing. Jim curled his lip in distaste as he pulled the pants and trousers back up his hips. 

Sherlock's expression mirrored Jim's when he tugged his own clothing back on. He'd gotten used to higher standards of living and comfort, particularly after John had moved in and taken over mundane chores like washing and ironing. Sherlock couldn't wait to get back to the flat and into fresh garments.

He took a moment to lean over slightly, scrunching fingers through his hair and shaking it out until it fell in messy tangles. Sherlock hated having his hair slicked back.

Jim huffed when they were finished and strode out of the room. Moran, waiting for them in the hall, looked a little less worse for wear. He'd washed his arms, although he still had a streak of dried blood over one cheek. He straightened upon seeing them emerge. "Car's ready," he said stiffly and fell into step beside them when Jim didn't stop or otherwise acknowledge that he had heard.

The sounds of clatter came from the control room they'd previously occupied and Jim stopped at the door. Dr. Kelly jumped and whirled at his presence. The little man clearly didn't know what to say when faced with Jim's smooth smile. 

"Dr. Kelly…." Jim began, enunciating the syllables clearly, pleasantly, "I trust you'll have the reports of subject three's progress over the last week in before the end of the day, won't you?" 

Kelly's face had gone white and his head began bobbing up and down in what may have been a nod. "Oh yes, yes. Of course."

"Thank you," Jim sang and turned on his heel, leaving the doctor to sweat over what he'd seen of his employer and colleagues that afternoon and rethink on his chances of making it out of this project alive.

Sherlock opted to ignore the doctor, striding past the door without glancing at the nervous man inside. 

He followed Jim and Sebastian out to the car. He had no idea how he was going to occupy himself for another three hours. He wouldn't get much thinking done unless Jim opted to leave him alone.

Seb opened the door for them to climb in the back and they went without a word. 

Driving through the winding forested road, Jim made himself comfortable, legs crossed and one arm slung over the back of the seat, took out his phone, and began texting. He didn't look up again.

Sherlock settled back against his own seat, tucking his feet up until his knees were eye level. His hands pressed together in a gesture reminiscent of prayer, had anyone made the mistake of thinking that he was particularly religious. His breathing slowed to a steady rate as he endeavored to shut out the quiet tapping on Jim's phone.

Sherlock went elsewhere. The hallways of his mind palace echoed slightly. They seemed to stretch on forever, room after room filled with cues to bring up stored data and memories. There was a method to the mad sprawl, and Sherlock knew where everything was. 

He strode through the maze until he came to a room filled with sentiment, not data.

Sherlock took a phantom skull from a phantom mantle, settled into a phantom armchair, and began to mutter to himself. In reality, his eyes fixed on empty space in front of him, boring into the wall separating them from the driver's side of the car.

Across from him, Jim’s dark eyes lifted and observed. It would have been strange how Jim seemed to take pleasure in nearly every one of Sherlock's quirks, but that is what he had sought the man out for, after all. Jim smiled to himself and let his eyes fall back to the screen, frowning at something he saw there and punching away another rapid message.

Sherlock, not having Eli or John with him to serve as a mute canvas on which he could paint out and align his thoughts, had to opt for the memory of his skull. Memories of John were still too painful.

"I don't understand any of this," he admitted to the empty sockets. "It doesn't make any logical sense, on multiple levels. I don't have base drives. The body is nothing but transport, has always been that way. By all accounts I should still be furious, and I still am. Angry. It doesn't seem to make a difference with the rest. Can severe trauma cause these sorts of sudden, overwhelming changes? I hadn't thought it was possible, but this should be investigated further. It's getting out of control, and I can't permit that to happen."

Eli grinned back at him. Truthfully, it was already out of control, but they both knew that.

Jim's eyes snapped up again. Sherlock’s muttering had sharpened. If the criminal paid careful attention, he could make out many of the words. It seemed the detective was having an internal debate of sorts…over what Jim had brought out in him since he'd arrived. Large, black eyes stared transfixed on Sherlock and Jim's thumb hovered over his phone. 

Still Sherlock continued, oblivious to his audience. He frowned.

"No, you're wrong," Sherlock countered. It didn't matter that Eli hadn't actually said anything - Sherlock still heard it plainly, just as he could hear the obnoxious thoughts of people around him if they were particularly predictable. "It's... It shouldn't be possible. Yes, I had emotions about him. Attachments. It's only natural when living and working closely with someone you get along with, for the human mind to bond in certain ways. That's simply a matter of evolution." Sherlock paused, skimmed over other memories sitting with him in the room and mentally redacted pieces of the conversation.

"...alright, perhaps you're _partially_ correct." It irked Sherlock to admit it. "I would not have permitted anyone to touch me like that in other circumstances, nor would I have protected them so thoroughly. That doesn't-" Sherlock went quiet, glancing towards the memory of the kitchen. The kettle sat, accusatory and foreboding, recalling small gestures of kindness and longing eyes that were quickly hidden under a thin veneer, both of them playing their parts and ignoring the melody woven beneath.

Sherlock abruptly stood. He cast a fearful glance at the stairs to the room above. He wasn't ready to face that, not when he couldn't even face this room. He tucked Eli under his arm and went back out to the hallway.

Jim frowned. Watching Sherlock shift through the memories in his head was like listening to a man on a radio describe the Grand Canyon, but Jim was perceptive enough to know who Sherlock was muttering about. The criminal's gaze turned cold. Even lost on the other side of an ocean and a good name-smearing, John Watson was proving to be a nuisance.

But, on the other hand, Sherlock's careful reconsideration of his former relationships, seen in the light of his newfound impulses, was only to be expected. Jim dropped his eyes and began typing again. He had loose ties to clean up as well.

Sherlock, in his head, wandered past several doors. Many of them were closed, but a few were cracked. The terrible scent of the Thames drifted through one frame, a view of the London bridge frozen in time. Another doorway showed a spacious room, part of a manor house. Sherlock passed it quickly.

The detective came to a sterile steel door and turned the handle. This room was a bizarre mishmash - half of it was composed of the morgue at St. Bart's, the other half filled with a university laboratory. Sherlock ignored the wall of compartments and crossed to the bookshelves on the laboratory side. Eli was set down on the counter as he began to browse.

"No, I'm not _repressed_ ," Sherlock hissed at the skull. He spread several books out on the table, a mix of psychology texts and general human anatomy. "I understood that he was interested, but it never became an issue. I didn't have any drives for anything more. I had always assumed I was simply asexual. And that doesn't explain the rest, now does it? Oh, that's rich. So you're suggesting there's a version of Stockholm that involves breaking your sexual identity? It's only been a few days and _something is wrong_."

Jim couldn't help the satisfied curl of his lips at that. He decided he liked the turn this was taking. Sherlock was beginning to question himself. Even the words “Stockholm Syndrome” alone Jim would have been happy to hear, but Sherlock, dear, magnificent Sherlock was investigating that idea a step further. It was interesting to discover that Sherlock honestly had considered himself to be asexual, something Jim could understand. After all, without knowing of any other person _worthy_ of interest, one had few options left but disinterest.

The textbooks were skimmed over, one after another, and set aside when they failed to provide the answers Sherlock wanted. "There's nothing here, why can't I find it? It must not have been covered." That wasn't an entirely surprising idea; he'd not been impressed with the quality of his experiences in academia, even at a prestigious university. Or, perhaps, this was one more area where he was off in uncharted waters. Sherlock had rarely ever overlapped with the spheres of ordinary men.

"Yes, you're right about that. There were levels that he simply couldn't get to, but that was part of what made it endearing. He recognized his limitations and gave praise when he saw those limitations surpassed. This is entirely different." Eli stared at him. Sherlock stared back. "It _is_ different. I don't care for the manipulation, but this is a game on a different level, except for the bodyguard. I've figured that out, a bit. There are enough parallels that he's reminding me of John, but isn't, and another person is factoring into the equation."

Sherlock frowned down at the textbooks in front of him and pondered, not really seeing the writing at all. "I don't think it's merely a confused form of egotism. Looking at myself in the mirror has never caused that sort of reaction."

Eventually Jim put his phone down, laid his head back, and just listened. He'd been able to make very accurate observations about Sherlock and thus find methods of influencing him so far, but reading Sherlock wasn't like reading anyone else. Sherlock was a man of layers, as proven when even he himself had to search into his own core to find the answers to his questions. 

In a moment of whimsy, Jim had to admire the parallels between Sherlock's defensive construction and Jim's own technological creations. He'd formed a criminal empire in layers of anonymity. He'd created the most robust and widely used cybersecurity programs under the same principal, layers upon layers of obfuscation until the entire network of them ran itself. He traced his forefinger over the cool metal edge of his phone. 

Sherlock was indeed a work of art. The man's heart and mind might as well have resided in the core of an onion.

In Sherlock’s experience, deducing himself had never been as easy as deducing those around him. As soon as a certain amount of objectivity was lost, one's perceptions became skewed. He observed the same data, but it was received in a corrupted form, fuzzy around the edges and more difficult to piece together into a logical whole. Sherlock had been so very certain, after thirty odd years of life, that he _knew_ himself. It was more than disconcerting to find out that he was wrong about that - it was downright upsetting to have his core foundations shaken so _violently_.

He slumped forward and laid his head on the table, staring without seeing. Abruptly he straightened and snatched up Eli. They had another place to visit. "I understand the fascination, even through the anger. It's difficult to find someone who actually presents a challenge. I don't understand the sudden change. This happened before the discovery in the warehouse. Perhaps almost immediately, on some subliminal level I wasn't paying attention to. There were enough distractions at the time." And perhaps that was the key to another question he'd asked himself: why had he kept John in the dark and continued playing, even as the stakes rapidly escalated? It was more than just the novelty of it, the thrill of finding a skilled opponent. James Moriarty had become a fixation almost as soon as he'd truly popped up on Sherlock's radar.

Sherlock entered the pool area. Water refraction painted the room in streaks of wavering light, lending an added sense of unreality. His footsteps on the tiles echoed through the bare space. Sherlock walked to the edge, stripped off his shoes and socks, rolled up the legs of his trousers. He dangled his legs into the cool water, breathing in the scent of chlorine and pondering how everything had come to this.

"Where are you now, Sherlock?" Jim whispered inaudibly. Across from the detective, he steepled his hands under his chin in mirror of Sherlock's pose and observed. Sherlock's curls fell into his eyes. His face held no tension. In a way, it was almost like the meditating they had done earlier, being focused within himself now. But he'd gone quiet. The mumblings under his breath had paused, and Jim was curious.

Sherlock's gaze flicked up from the view of his feet in the water. A whisper had echoed through the room. His eyes fixed on a still form that was floating, face down, further out in the water. "Don't be stupid, Eli. This is the pool. That's Carl. I've told you about this before." For a murder scene, it was peaceful.

Jim's attention became utterly fixed. His pulse quickened. Sherlock was remembering his first kill, remembering what had brought them together so long ago. What Jim had attempted to recapture in video and wrap like a present for the detective so that he, too, could understand the beauty, the awe of it all.

"Do you remember, Sherlock, how beautiful you were then? How much potential you had?" Jim whispered.

"No." Carl's body seemed closer, somehow. Sherlock couldn't quite tell if it was drifting or not. "No, that was the second time I failed. I spotted the right clues, but couldn't put them together. Better than not spotting any clues at all, but it was a failure all the same." It didn't matter that he'd been young and hadn't had the resources to get more information, that he hadn't been believed. He'd spotted the key and been left staring at the missing piece, unable to move forward to the next conclusion.

"No…." Jim breathed out softly. "No, not a failure at all. How could you have seen it all when I hadn't let you?" He understood that Sherlock wasn't speaking to him directly, that somehow the detective was hearing Jim's voice through his dream, but Jim needed to slip into Sherlock's mind as himself. "You hadn't let yourself see your own baser urges either, perhaps not after the very first inkling in your mind that they existed, and you hid all those little clues from yourself. Was that failure, too? Do you see now? I _am_ you." Jim whispered it like a prayer. "You're _me_. We are one and the same. "

Sherlock started, staring down in horror. Somehow, when he wasn't paying attention, Carl had drifted close enough to touch. Deathly white hands gripped his legs as the corpse pulled itself upright, eyes staring at him through a milky film. Sherlock leaned back, only for Carl to slither up further, blanketing him and dripping water into his eyes. Sherlock's mouth twisted in revulsion before the corpse leaned down to kiss him. Cold, rubbery lips turned warm and pliant. Dead eyes morphed into dark pools set in a different, delicate face.

Jim scanned Sherlock's features. Something was happening. Jim climbed to his knees and crossed the space between them. He laid his hands on the armrests to either side of the detective and peered into his closed eyes, watching every muscle twitch, every minute expression that crossed Sherlock’s face. He seemed uncomfortable. Jim caught the barest traces of emotions appearing and passing just as quickly, fright, repulsion, awe. He leaned closer, touching his warm breath to Sherlock’s lips.

The Carl-who-wasn't pulled back, and Sherlock found that Moriarty had taken his place, the love note replaced by the sender. He was no longer a corpse - he breathed, and Sherlock could feel the warm passage of air across his face. Sherlock still didn't have the answers, but it felt like another piece or two slipped into place in that moment. He was having trouble precisely _because_ this was one of those human experiences that didn't follow strict logic and couldn't be pinpointed exactly through science. It was a messy organic jumble because it was human.

Sherlock didn't like not knowing, but what he had for the moment would have to suffice. He leaned up and touched his mouth to Jim's again.

Dark brown eyes went wide for a moment, but when it passed, Jim settled into the feel of Sherlock's mouth against his. He opened for Sherlock and his tongue found the detective's. Jim pulled Sherlock’s lip gently between his teeth and then dove in again. His fingers trailed up the fine hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck. Whatever happened in Sherlock's mind, Jim's statement had motivated this, and that was a very, _very_ good sign.

Eli sat in silent witness as Sherlock let himself be pinned by a ghost-turned-man. There were still haunted corridors in his mind, but the physicality of the experience began to pull him out of his palace. The room faded and merged with reality, only for Sherlock to find that Jim really was there. His eyes widened in surprise, but his mouth opened to let the other man in.

Jim smiled as he kissed Sherlock. His lashes fluttered open again to confirm that he'd felt Sherlock come back to reality and then closed in satisfaction. His other hand came up to rest against Sherlock's jaw, fingers tracing lightly over the indent of his temple while Jim's other hand moved up his scalp. He might have been building a three dimensional map of Sherlock's face with his hands.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Jim asked when he pulled away.

"The start of it, at least. It's not done." That was accurate enough. Sherlock had the threads to follow now; it was a matter of following them to their ends. He wasn't yet ready for some of the things he knew he'd find.

This, however... he'd have to take this anomaly at face value for the time being. There were several levels interacting with each other and obfuscating the causes of his reactions. Until he could untangle them and look more closely at the pieces of himself, it was pointless to let the results unduly upset him. Even if it made an uncomfortable weight settle in a portion of his chest.

Jim nodded slowly. He pressed his thumb to Sherlock's full lips, tracing one and then the other. It was strange and pleasant how some features had remained over the years, defining Sherlock as Sherlock. His lips, his eyes, even his hair were a few.

"Good," Jim said and then moved to take his seat again.

Sherlock watched him go, his gaze lingering as Jim resettled himself and turned his attention back to his phone. Business again. 

Sherlock turned away and stared out the window. There wasn't much to see and occupy himself with; the New York countryside wasn't particularly exotic or interesting. 

At some point Sherlock dozed off.


	8. Chapter 8

Early evening loved New York. By the time they arrived in Manhattan the sun was already low in the sky and the city glistened in the dying light. All one had to do was look up past the crowds and the busy streets and the mess of humanity below to see it.

Jim watched from behind darkened windows until it was time to wake his companion. A block away from their apartment, he rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to bring him back to the land of the living.

Sherlock slipped back into consciousness easily. He turned to regard the owner of the hand before his eyes focused and processed who it was. A glance outside told Sherlock exactly where they were. His stomach chose that moment to voice its complaints; blood had not gone down well on an empty stomach, and it had been many hours since he'd last eaten. Cravings for more than food whispered at the back of his mind. There was a psychosomatic itch from where he'd injected earlier that day, and he was all too aware of the vials in his pocket.

Jim laughed softly as they pulled up to the curb. "You'll have to order up dinner," he said, opening the door and stepping back into the chilly air of the city. "Or have Seb fetch it." Jim shot a toothy smile to the large man as he stepped out of the driver's seat. Seb raised an eyebrow, not having heard the first part of Jim's words. "I'm afraid I have to step out for a while. Make a few calls. See to the wellbeing, or otherwise, of one Richard Brook. You two should be able to play nice while I'm gone, no?"

"We'll manage." Sherlock supposed that this worked out for the best. He needed to have an uninterrupted talk with the bodyguard, and that would prove difficult with Jim in the same flat. Sherlock followed Jim out of the car, turning to raise an eyebrow at the blond man. Sebastian still looked the worse for their time in the warehouse. "I believe some cleaning up and a change of clothes are in order before dinner is even considered."

Jim laughed. "My thoughts exactly," he said, striding ahead. Seb nodded once, to Sherlock this time, and got back in the car to take it away before he joined them again. Sherlock was recognized with a nod polite greeting from the doorman. The staff knew his face now, either as Jim's guest or another tenant.

In the elevator, Jim closed his eyes and leaned his head back, thinking. He looked mechanical, like there should have been cogs and levers running inside his head as he no doubt planned the details of Richard's disappearance.

Sherlock let him be. He knew from personal experience just how aggravating it was to have your thought process derailed by unnecessary mundane input. Even if Jim would probably still welcome interruptions from _him_ , nothing needed to be said. They rode the lift in silence, stepping out together on the same beat. They split apart to go to their respective rooms and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief once he was safely ensconced behind his bedroom door.

He wasted no time in stripping out of his soiled clothes and getting back into a shower, this time with proper soap.

Jim did exactly the same on the other side of the apartment. His shower was quick, his clothes were discarded in the rubbish, and he still didn't bother shaving. He did, however, slick his hair back in place and don another suit, this time with a deep burgundy tie, which he matched his shoelaces to, and a sharper cut around the lapels. He reemerged just as Sebastian walked through the front door.

Sherlock took only slightly longer, exiting his room a few breaths after Jim. His hair still hung in damp ringlets and his clothing was plain - a solid white shirt dark slacks and a blazer. Sherlock made a mental note that shopping was in order tomorrow. As well as Jim had done in trying to cater to his tastes, Sherlock would feel better having an assortment of clothing that he chose for himself, and money was no longer an issue now that Jim had given him one of his cards.

Sherlock frowned for a moment. Buying a new wardrobe for the flat signified acceptance and a level of comfort with this new life. He wasn't entirely certain when that line had been crossed.

Jim gathered his laptop from the table before he crossed through the apartment to Sebastian. "Do take care of dear Sherlock," Jim said pleasantly, his fingers stroking along the taller man's shoulder as he passed. "Or it'll be your head." Blue eyes followed his back, watching him go until Jim turned and the elevator doors closed on his little smile.

Finally, the gunman turned and caught sight of Sherlock watching. Seb had changed into more casual clothes, boots, dark jeans and a full jacket easily meant to conceal weapons. No doubt he'd anticipated playing civilian tonight. He'd also washed his face and the rest of the blood away.

Sherlock's gaze locked onto Seb as soon as the lift doors hid Jim from view. The tension in the room was palpable. Sherlock had no idea what to do with the bodyguard, especially after what had transpired earlier. After a moment, recalling his musings from the mind palace, he decided to attempt to treat the man like John. They were both military men, both loosely in caretaker roles, and weren't members of the common populace to be ignored.

"Well. I'm hungry. How do you feel about Mexican?" he asked.

Sebastian nodded, a touch warily as his eyes never left Sherlock's. "Anywhere you've got in mind? Cause the best Mexican place I've seen around here is a taco stand a couple blocks down," he shrugged and took a stool at the table, his naturally casual air coming through. "Haven't exactly been looking." He rested his elbows against the marble behind him, leaning back and studying Sherlock.

"I haven't had the chance to really explore the city yet, so... no. I don't have anywhere in mind." They continued to eye each other, not really knowing what to expect. "I don't know what you're used to with Jim, but I would suggest not assuming that I'm going to react in the same manner," Sherlock suggested. "We both know we have things to talk about and agreements to come to, but I would prefer not to do so on an empty stomach."

Moran raised both eyebrows, acting as though an arrangement between them was a novel idea he hadn't considered. Obviously Seb had spent time in New York setting things up with Jim, but apparently not long as to have gotten familiar with the city. "Taco stand it is, then." He pushed off the counter, then looked at Sherlock. "Your hair is gonna freeze," he said bluntly. 

"And?" Sherlock pulled on his coat with a shrug. "My room didn't come with a hair dryer. I'll survive walking a few blocks." He stalked over to the lift, glancing over his shoulder to be certain the other man was following.

Without a change in his expression, Moran stopped at the closet by the entrance and tossed Sherlock a woolen hat. He then stood shoulder to shoulder with the detective, waiting for the elevator. Sebastian was comfortable with silence, it seemed.

Sherlock regarded Seb openly, not even attempting to hide the fact that he was observing the man. The bodyguard held himself stoically, a trace of military training present even when he wasn't standing at attention. It was the same thing he'd noticed about John, the way his body automatically shifted toward parade rest from long habit. The stepped into the lift together and began to descend to the ground floor. "You were pleased with how this afternoon turned out."

Sebastian's back stiffened subtly in a way that had nothing at all to do with his training. The faintest bit of color reddened his cheeks. A moment passed in tense silence. "You seemed more than a little pleased with it yourself," Sebastian said, a statement of challenge in response to another. His eyes remained focused on the door.

Sherlock shrugged, acknowledging the point. "I hadn't been aware that I had that particular trigger. It wasn't an unpleasant way to find out." The lights ticked down the floor numbers as they approached the ground. "He seems more willing to include you if he's indulging what I want." They both knew who they were talking about; the sentence was offered teasingly, a hint of an offer laced through to see if Seb would reach for it.

Tension creased Sebastian's brows. He straightened his shoulders and rolled them back, cracking his neck when the doors chimed open. "Is that an offer?" Seb asked as he stepped out striding with heavy footfalls over the polished floor. If Sherlock's legs hadn't been as long as Seb's, he would have had a difficult time matching the man's pace.

"Depending on how amiable you are, yes." They made good time getting out the door and onto the street. While they were both tall, Seb was solidly built. Sherlock looked like he might get blown over in a strong wind. As it was, he turned up the collar of his coat against the chill.

Seb trudged headlong into it. "Never mind that he's going to see right through any deal made between us, _if_ we make a deal, even, what could you possibly want from me?" Blue eyes flashed to the side as they walked, Sebastian trying to take in Sherlock's reaction. The man was intelligent, there was no question of that, but he was no consulting detective.

Sherlock's mouth curled slightly, sly but not cruel. He'd given this possibility a bit of thought after tackling some of his feelings on the situation earlier. "I'm an addictive personality, Moran. Once I find something that I like, I have a difficult time letting it go. Jim is not going to want me to continue to wander off on my own to replenish my supplies, and I already know that I've found a new substance today. You're the obvious choice to supply it, since it runs to your tastes and you wouldn't do anything to risk my life or health. You know Jim would rip you apart if you did." They paused to wait for the streetlight.

That got Seb's attention. The man turned to look at him. Half the defenses Seb had raised since this line of questioning began dropped as their eyes met. "You want blood." It was a realization, not a question. He was surprised, but not shocked. What had probably surprised Moran more was not the request in itself, but that Sherlock had not asked him to do anything against Jim's will.

The light changed and they stepped forward, passing effortlessly through the crowd.

Sherlock could read as much in Seb's expression. "Yes, and I think we both know that Jim won't mind," he added. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the blond man. "He might actually encourage it." His gaze flickered, reconfirming the decision he'd come to earlier. "You aren't aesthetically unappealing, and you share certain traits with... someone who meant a great deal to me. I don't have any issues with sharing."

Seb glanced at Sherlock again, caught off guard for the second time, and then laughed. He shook his head as if to clear it. Sherlock's honest proposition had surprised him. "No, I don't think he would mind at all." He gave Sherlock a half smile, one as sly as Jim's but for the lack of sheer, focused intensity behind it. "But I wouldn't get your hopes up about me reminding you of your friend. I saw him, when I was watching you. I believe I can safely say you'd have a very different experience in bed with him than myself."

"I didn't say you were exactly the same, merely that you share a few traits. It's obvious you don't have a doctor's disposition or bedside manners." Seb didn't appear at all put off by the proposal, but Sherlock didn't return his smile. Not yet. "I don't know what to expect out of most of this, other than the general physical mechanics. This is one of those areas where textbook data doesn't really replace actual experience. I'm open to negotiation but can't give any solid agreements without knowing what I'm agreeing to."

Sebastian rose his brows again and considered Sherlock. "We'll just have to find out then," he said finally, followed by a wolfish smile. Sebastian was wholly different from Jim, even when they pulled off the same look. He was blunt where Jim was smooth, bold where Jim was cunning. Sebastian's personality could have drawn people to him if he'd tried, but not in the way Jim's could. 

They could see the stand now, only a block away from the Park. It was a simple little thing, with one large sign proclaiming it sold tacos, burritos, and enchiladas. It looked like a favorite with the crowd.

Sherlock mirrored Sebastian's expression, raising his eyebrows and giving him a quixotic smile as he tried to read the man. "You agreed to that quicker than I expected." The conversation was tempered now; Sherlock might have normally gone for the brutal, blunt approach, but even he knew when to obfuscate some subjects. Discussions about trading physical favors for drugs and blood was one of those times when it was better not to attract the attention of the general public.

"You must realize that even I have ulterior motives." Seb shrugged and kept smiling, but it turned sharper. His voice dropped. "He's pretty damn fond of you. Don't know what he'd think of us together," Seb leaned close for a moment, humor gone from his eyes, "but I bet he'd be jealous." When he leaned back, the coldness was gone. He spoke casually and didn't seem to be bothered by the crowd, but his words weren't specific enough to be overheard and understood. Obviously he was used to talking like this in public, which said just as much about Jim as it did the ex-soldier.

Sherlock nodded. "True enough, but be careful how far you try to push him. Your position isn't nearly as secure, and I don't enjoy being turned into a tool. I don't have to help you at all." Their conversation paused as they got closer to the front of the line and began to order. Sherlock got enchiladas with a spicy green sauce and had to dip into his stash of pickpocketed cash; the street vendor was too small to accept a credit card.

Seb ordered carne asada tacos and got their drinks. They waited off to the side for their food, away from the huddle of people in the spicy smelling steam steadily billowing out one side of the stand.

"You offered," Sebastian said coolly. He stood with his back straight, eyes on the crowd, hands shoved in his pockets. "Don't tell me it hadn't crossed your mind that he might get upset. Or that I might be a little more proactive in the terms of your bargain. What does it matter to you _why_ I'd agree to this?"

"Reasons almost always matter. The justification people spin for themselves has an effect on their actions. Sometimes it's overt, sometimes it's subtle, but it matters. You might hold back a bit for fear of what would happen to your own hide should you get overenthusiastic, but regarding someone as a means to an end often ends up with unpleasant side effects for the person. I knew he might get jealous; that's part of why the offer has added power. I'm not offering to be a pawn, but a partner, and I want to be certain you're not mistaking the two."

Blue eyes glanced to meet Sherlock's. The detective was right, of course. Sebastian could only get what he wanted if he didn't go into this intending to anger Jim. And it seemed Sherlock had his own rules. Seb's temper had cooled since the warehouse, but the sting of Jim's infatuation still lingered. He was edgy because of it, too rash. "Then give me a reason to change my mind. Make it worth my while."

Sherlock's gaze turned sharp as knives for a moment, a flicker of anger that was gone as quickly as it appeared. "What exactly did you think I was doing?" he asked coldly. The stall vendor handed over their purchases and they both turned to walk back to the flat. "You aren't going to be convinced in an instant. You have the current opportunities of time and my undiluted attention. I suggest you take advantage of them while we won't be interrupted."

"Well you're damn right I'm not convinced." Steam rose in swirls around them as they walked. Seb opened his tacos and began eating. "I have a feeling you can get close to what I want, but I'm not so sure you _will_ , even with payment. So you ask me to trust you without using you, and you can see how I might be skeptical." He licked sauce from his thumb and forefinger, unconsciously make the sign of a gun with his hand. "But you also say you're offering time," and Seb smiled a crooked, mocking smile, "time to get to 'know one another'. Starting right now, the first moment he leaves, back up there in your fancy little tower no less." They approached their own block when Seb turned suddenly, catching hold of Sherlock's front and dragging him into the stone niche of an alleyway. "So I can't help but wonder," he growled, absolutely serious, "whether you're telling the truth."

Sherlock went smoothly; for all that Sebastian was rough edges, he had a sense of self-preservation. "That's just a chance you're going to have to decide if you want to take," he countered, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I don't have to work with you at all. If I decide to ignore you, Jim won't think to include you anymore. Obtaining my own supply of blood would be more work on my part, and Jim would likely send you to shadow me anyway to ensure the focus of his obsession doesn't get damaged. I could choose to make your life more complicated and unpleasant, and without a taste of what you want. Or we can try something different and see if it works, but you're going to have to take a gamble at the beginning."

Sebastian dropped his hands from Sherlock's clothing and stared hard at the man. He was in an unusual situation with Sherlock, someone supposedly on par with Jim, or so Jim thought and wasn't that the strangest part of it all, someone Jim trusted to leave on his own after being violently ripped from his former life and with every reason to hate Jim and Sebastian in turn. Seb's gut told him to go with it, but paranoia reminded him that Sherlock was clever.

Seb laid both hands flat against the wall over Sherlock's shoulders, plastic bag of tacos swinging from his wrist, and studied Sherlock the way he would a man he was about to rip apart, slowly. He watched the steady pulse beat in Sherlock's neck and the path of his eyes as he watched Seb in return who leaned in, stopping just short of touching their noses together. "Never been one to pass up a game of chance."

Sherlock's smile widened and turned more authentic. "I can see why he keeps you around." He wasn't John, not by a long shot, but there were a few similarities. Sebastian wasn't a genius, but he wasn't an idiot either. There was a taste for risk taking and violence there, and surprising twists hidden beneath a surface that could blend into a crowd. Perhaps less so than John, who had looked so unintimidating and plain with his short stature and bland clothing that nobody had believed he was a crack shot and adrenaline junkie, but Seb still didn't look too out of place on the street.

Seb snorted and pushed off the wall, but he couldn't hide the way his mouth turned up from Sherlock. With a crack of his neck and a nod, they were back on the street and making their way to the apartment. The elevator ride was silent. A few people joined them on the way, none the wiser as to who they were sharing a lift with. All were gone by the time they reached their floor.

Sherlock strode off into the kitchen without a word. The enchiladas had been too messy to eat while walking, and Sherlock didn't want to wait and let them grow any colder. He sat down at the center island. He didn't need to bother turning around; he could hear Sebastian behind him.

The sound of crumpled paper and plastic hit the rubbish bin. He hadn't taken more than a few bites of his meal before the press of fingers trailed from the back of his neck, just under his collar, down his spine. It seemed Sebastian was rather curious about him after all.

Sherlock hid his smirk and continued eating, but not before snaking an arm behind himself to pull Seb a few inches closer. He'd let the man explore, within reason. "You can sit down. I'm not going to attack you for touching."

The man dropped into the seat next to him and didn't take his eyes off Sherlock. He leaned on one elbow, his hand swiping through his hair to hold his head in a move that would have looked posed on a real lover, but Sebastian was unselfconscious. His only intent was to study Sherlock, perhaps wondering how Jim saw him, definitely wondering in what ways the two men were so supposedly similar.

"Tell me, Sebastian. Did you discover your tastes early and decide to go into the armed forces because of it, or did something else spur the decision? You're obviously from a monied background. You drawl, but there's an accent underneath that one only finds among the Eton elite. You favor sniper rifles but have obviously been trained for different types of close combat as well, and you've used it. That mark isn't from a blade or a bullet - I'm familiar with the way scar tissue forms with each of those types of wounds. You got close enough to a wild animal to get clawed." Cold, analytical grey eyes swept over him before Sherlock swallowed another bite. "Not blunt. Something with hooked claws, a large cat. "

A smile spread over Seb's face as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He nodded his head, lips pulling back as his tongue swept over his teeth while he appraised Sherlock's observations. "I'm a hunter. I like to take down large prey." His gaze fastened to Sherlock's. "The bigger, the better." He wasn't talking about cats when his eyes dropped to Sherlock's collar. "Is this your way of getting to know me, deducing me? What would it tell you about me if I 'discovered' my tastes later in life, like you seem to be doing, or have been this way all along?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Deducing is how I know most people. Most people are simple and not worth spending time on, much less letting them get close." His gaze sharpened, sweeping over Seb to search out more details. "I think it more likely you discovered the full extend of your tastes later on, once you had some experience in the field. Probably had some idea and had experienced impulses, but not had the opportunity to see how far you could go before satisfied. If you knew before trying to enlist, you would have encountered problems on the psychological evaluations unless you were very clever." Impassive grey eyes met blue again. "Some people know exactly what they want early on. I've always had more difficulties with that. I've always had a better grasp on things I _don't_ want than things I do."

"I've noticed," Seb snorted a laugh. He leaned back and chewed a toothpick, rolling it from one side of his mouth to the other, then sucking and repeating the motion. "Always was a hunter," he said eventually. He must have conceded that Sherlock would somehow read these things on him anyway. "Even when I was young, but it wasn't the same then. Sport, the family past time, and I _liked_ it. The classic signs of boyhood coming of age, all very well and proper." Sebastian became more animated as he continued. He might have been entertaining friends at the pub. "But not so much anymore when it's time to go off to school. The priorities of a gentleman change then, but not for me." He flipped the toothpick, one side already chewed to splinters. "I kept up the hunting. Bit of an obsession, actually. Went from sport to big game and I took more and more risks as I went along. Military just seemed like the right choice when I figured out Oxford wasn't the place for me." He grinned. "And I didn't even have to give up the hunting."

Sherlock grinned back, genuinely pleased. "So you got the lecture about proper behavior for your social class as well. How long did it take to drop out and tell your family to shove off?" he asked. "I lasted a year and a half. The professors were imbeciles and cared more about the politics of academia than actually doing their jobs. I dropped off the grid before one of us snapped and tried to murder the other."

Sebastian chuckled. "You know…." he said, cocking his head and regarding Sherlock with a curious look, "I think I could see it now." His lip turned up as if it were something to be admired. "I wouldn't have imagined you'd had it in you before, but….now, you're painting a clearer picture. Even that detective lady. I _knew_ what you'd done, but you were like a robot." Sherlock might have just gained some measure of respect in Seb's eyes. 

Sherlock's humor vanished abruptly. "I did what I had to. She crossed the line from petty annoyance to threat. I wasn't going to let her ruin the life I'd constructed because she was foolish enough to fabricate evidence in pursuit of a personal vendetta." Ironic, really; Donovan had always voiced concern with the other Met officers that Sherlock would turn homicidal one day, then done exactly what was necessary to push him over the edge.

"Mmm, so you were backed into a corner," Sebastian shrugged, but the look in his eyes didn't sour, "but you still lit the flame and didn't feel sorry for it. Not the same as what I've done, sure, but Jim thinks, and so I might be inclined to take a second look, there's even more to you than the machine."

The oddest expression flickered across Sherlock's features - a dark, knowing look that curved his mouth into a cruel line before it disappeared. "I'm not a machine, no. I just give the impression of one at times. Emotions can cloud your judgment and diminish the objectivity of one's observations, along with providing unwanted distractions. It hindered my work, so I shut pieces off when I need to."

"…He's very good at finding those little bits of people they've tried to shut away. And flipping the switch, as I think you're discovering." Sebastian said without moving. "If I were you, I'd decide how much it's worth it to you to keep those emotions or whatever it is you've got buried in your head turned off."

"Given that everyone that ever knew me thinks I'm dead and my work has been taken away, there's not much point to shutting everything off anymore." That, however, left a messy backlog. Sherlock had been aware that some things could only be repressed and put off for so long before needing to be vented, but this seemed to hold true for more than intense emotions. He was well used to delaying feelings of anger or grief and processing them through music, but he was finding other things that he'd bottled up without noticing.

"Well I'll toast to that," Seb gave a sardonic smile and raised one plastic cup, sucking loudly through the straw before he set it down again. Perhaps he'd noticed the potential avenues that this new mindset of Sherlock's could take him, but he probably didn't hang all his hopes on Sherlock's offer to sway Jim. Sebastian knew very well just how difficult it was to sway Jim.

"You don't even know what that entails," Sherlock pointed out. "Severed heads in the crisper and eyeballs in the microwave weren't unusual at my old flat. Drove a significant portion of my potential flatmates away, in fact." As rebellious as Mycroft thought Sherlock had been, there had been lines even he had toed. With all the old boundaries torn down, even Sherlock wasn't certain where and what his limits were. He knew some of his tastes, but he now had the freedom to explore any avenue he wanted.

"Far be it from me to judge. All I care about is making sure those aren't my body parts." Seb smiled knowingly. "But if that's what you're after, and I don't think it is…yet, you'll get yourself one hell of a fight." He tossed the toothpick in the rubbish bin. Little remained of it but slivers.

"I think I prefer yours to still be attached, thus far," Sherlock replied dryly. "Although I might change my mind if you ever push me too far." Sherlock's gaze settled on Seb's mouth; he hadn't had enough opportunities to observe the other man, but between his cigarette habit and the toothpick, he was willing to take a gamble that the man had a mild oral fixation.

"Well color me grateful." The corner of Seb's mouth twitched in a subdued smirk. He'd noticed Sherlock watching. "You said you had an addictive personality. You weren't kidding, were you?" Seb enunciated, forming the words with deliberate focus on the ways his mouth moved. It was one of Jim's mannerisms set in a deeper tone and a stronger jaw.

"You have no idea. One of many traits that run in my family." The lines of the bodyguard's mouth were suddenly fascinating, all smug curve with a hint of teeth. Sebastian was right in some respects; Jim had managed to rummage around in his head and flip a switch. Not that Sherlock would have admitted as much, but it was mildly terrifying.

"Mhmm… Like the way you're watching me right now." Seb ran his tongue over one of his canines. Sherlock had a look of awe about him, and he wouldn't take his eyes off Seb's mouth. "When he left you barely waited to make a deal with me, knowing it was very unlikely I'd refuse, and then you were so quick to remind me I could take advantage of that new bargain tonight." Seb smirked knowingly, watching Sherlock watch him, a devious edge sharpened his features. "You're definitely getting something out of both sides of this deal, aren't you? Thoroughly investigating an experiment, maybe?"

"So you have learned a trick or two." Despite being the brawn of the criminal duo, Sebastian wasn't a moron. It was only to be expected that he'd pick up a few skills from working with Jim. "I don't know how often he leaves you alone and unoccupied. It seemed imperative to take advantage of the opportunity." It wasn't just leverage. If he learned something and gained a bit of pleasure out of the deal, all the better.

Sebastian reached across and stabbed a fork in one of Sherlock's enchiladas, tearing off the end of it and swirling it in sauce before he raised it to his mouth. "I get a few nights off here and there. If you're feeling opportunistic." While Seb leaned forward, Sherlock's posture was nearly perfect. Somehow, intentionally to be sure, the gunman had discarded his straight backed upbringing in favor of a casual sprawl. He didn't lean away once he'd finished the bite. Instead, his fingers walked up Sherlock's leg, starting at the knee.

Sherlock tensed, suddenly acutely uncomfortable. He was familiar enough with certain aspects of flirting - the verbal banter, the maneuvering and mind games played with body language. Physical touching and overt interest were still new. Sherlock hadn't learned the rules yet, much less figured out what parameters he fit into. "You seem to be feeling opportunistic right now. You'd have agreed whether or not Jim ever becomes a factor."

"You're very much like him, in ways," Sebastian said slowly. "I've watched you these past few days and can't help wonder what he'd be like in your position now." His fingers stilled and Seb laughed. "He never would be. He would have needed a life to give up in the first place." The digits continued their progress again. "But yeah, I probably would have."

Sherlock's hand clamped down over Seb's, halting the movement up his thigh. "I still don't know what I'm doing." An uncomfortable admission, but honest. Sherlock didn't even know whether he was up to this much experimentation in one day. He was already feeling overwhelmed. The visual memory of a toothpick shattering between sharp teeth replayed itself in Sherlock's mind.

Seb smiled, but there was something shady about it. His fingers squeezed into the hard flesh of Sherlock's leg. He shifted closer at the same time he rested his other elbow on the table, as though it had only been coincidence that he was now leaning into Sherlock's space. "Then what would you like to know?"

Sherlock held his ground, staring hard at Seb. For all that his face was carefully schooled into neutrality, his breathing was a touch too shallow. "I don't know if I've only enjoyed things thus far because it of Jim, or if I'd have the same reactions with someone else. I've also been... well, not necessarily the _active_ party, but something close to it. I don't know how well I'd do in other roles."

Seb considered this with a rumbling hum. "Well, if you're dead set on outlying your boundaries now, speak up. Otherwise, I'll start, and you let me know what you want as we go along, hm? I'm not about to hurt you without Jim's permission." His smile grew fractionally. He hadn't said ' _your_ permission'. "And if you're not sure what you want…well there's only one way to find out."

"Don't try anything too extreme. Hurt or not, I'm not sure where the line between jealous and murderous lies with Jim." Sherlock hadn't missed Sebastian's clever phrasing. Clearly they were going to get into another fight in the future if he was already respecting Jim's word above Sherlock's where personal interactions were involved. "And you're going to need more than Jim's permission if that's something you're looking forward to. You're not the only one adept at hurting people."

Seb's smile grew wide. "Think I'd turn down a fight? And then a fuck? Mmm…" The man's brows raised, enjoying the thought. "Maybe we'll just have to convince him to let us go for another round."

As it was, Sherlock was the one unrestrained enough to truly hurt Sebastian and get away with it. Jim's parting warning lied in neon in the back of their minds. Seb's hands were tied with a short leash. But that didn't mean he couldn't maneuver within the given space.

"Masochistic as well as a sadist?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow at the bodyguard. The man was overconfident; just because he'd won the last round didn't mean he'd win the next. Sherlock regarded him with narrowed eyes, then decided that he needed to throw Seb off-balance, even if only a little. Too much easy compliance would give him the wrong idea.

Sherlock's hand tightened over Seb's, fingernails digging into the skin. That was the only warning Sebastian got. Sherlock closed the last few inches, catching Seb's lower lip in his teeth before the man could react.

The ex-soldier stiffened immediately, catching his hand before it came up by instinct to intercept Sherlock. In the next moment, Seb was laughing softly against Sherlock's mouth, pushing forward in return and turning it into something that resembled a kiss. With teeth. Not like Jim had done days prior, but he caught Sherlock's lip, dragged his teeth along it and then dove forward again.

Sherlock had decided that he liked teeth. Seb was taking care not to rip his stitches, but there was a delightful sharpness to it all the same. It made him think of other observations he'd made over the years when looking at couples. Sherlock twined his fingers in Seb's hair and tried to pull him to where he wanted him to go; he tilted his head and exposed an arch of neck in invitation.

That got another chuckle from the soldier. Sherlock wasn't shy about asking for things.

Seb shifted his stool so that he could lean into Sherlock fully, spreading his knees on either side of Seb's own. With one hand on Sherlock's thigh and the other in his hair in defiant mirror of Sherlock's hold on him, Sebastian pulled his head back and bit lightly at the skin under his jaw. The hunter knew exactly where the jugular vein rested, thrumming with life, and pressed his mouth over it as if he were ready to tear into Sherlock's flesh.

Sherlock's pulse sped up beneath Seb's lips. His breath hitched slightly when Seb began attacking the tender skin in earnest and he felt sharp canines again. Sherlock was having a hard time telling whether he was enjoying this on its own merit or whether it was due to the implied danger. After their trip out to the warehouse, Sherlock harbored no illusions about how dangerous the bodyguard was. Perhaps that was part of what was drawing him in, both to Jim and his pet sniper.

"C'mere," Seb growled, pulling Sherlock's head toward him and lifting his thigh so that the detective had to move. The moment he raised his leg and shifted his weight, Seb hooked an arm around his lower back and pulled him forward into the gunman's lap. His mouth barely left Sherlock's neck as he did so, moving down until he reached the taut muscle above the dip in his collar bone.

Sherlock lost his center of balance as soon as Seb pulled him forward. His spine arched as Seb's mouth trailed lower, breath leaving him in a hiss between clenched teeth. Thus far, his body was reacting the same as it had with Jim, and Seb was equally interested; Sherlock could feel a telltale firmness beneath him. It would have been alarming had he not been confident that the bodyguard wouldn't dare go that far.

Sherlock's hands snuck down to the hem of the blond man's shirt. They were still warming up from their walk, and Seb's skin beneath the fabric felt hot against his fingertips.

Seb hissed and bit Sherlock's collarbone, retaliation for the icy touch, but he didn't try to stop him. When Sherlock's long fingers wandered higher, Seb pulled back and let the shirt be dragged over his head. Underneath, his body was all muscle. All but for a series of frighteningly vicious scars running across his torso. They were deep, creating canyons in the major pectorals and the rippling obliques at a nearly 45 degree angle. They were as old as the ones on his face and shoulder.

Sherlock's fingers wandered over the marks, ignoring the sting from the bite Seb had given him. The scar tissue was less dense than expected; quite old, then, to have had enough time to soften. They all looked to be a matched set, made by the same animal several years prior. A smile graced Sherlock's mouth as he slid his hands up Seb's chest to his shoulders. One hand tensed and Sherlock dragged his nails down the furrows.

"I bet you can read more in those than you could from my own mouth," Seb mused. "I shot the bastard, beautiful thing. Ripped it apart." He laid his hands on the sides of Sherlock's face. "How I'd love to do the same to you," he whispered.

That was probably the most telling thing Sebastian had said all evening. His casual banter and smoldering gaze hadn't been feigned, but they'd been hiding the deeper frustration inside him, the anger that had been bubbling in him ever since Jim's attentions became clear. But Sherlock was far too like Jim, too intelligent, too cunning to hate completely, not when Sebastian was beginning to see those sparks in him.

Seb stroked a nail against Sherlock's cheek, just enough for the detective to feel it.

"You won't, though." Sherlock's hand stroked up the furrows again. The sharp feeling at his cheek caused him to finally return Seb's gaze. The vicious light in the man's eyes confirmed his words and what Sherlock had already suspected. "Not right now. You won't go against Jim's wishes, no matter what you want."

Sherlock sat calmly on Seb's lap, refusing to flinch as he stared into a blue-eyed abyss. The undercurrent of danger tugged at him, thickening the atmosphere between them with a sharp, metallic tang that wasn't unlike the taste of blood. Sherlock was aware that, on some level, that was part of the draw. Jim and Sebastian were both dangerous, albeit in different ways, and that generated a certain amount of fascination. He was as much of an adrenaline junkie as his former pet soldier.

"No, I won't."

Sebastian's hand turned gentle again, large fingers stroking through Sherlock's hair and round the back of his head, the perfect place to grab a handful of curls and slam his head down if Seb wanted to. But he didn't. And he wouldn't.

"I'll just have to enjoy you alive, then," the man whispered and recaptured Sherlock's lips. With one hand Seb pulled Sherlock's hips snugly against his and encouraged him to rock forward. The motion was aided by the stool. Sherlock could wrap his thighs fully around Seb's hips without barrier.

Sherlock exhaled sharply; Seb's last words had sent an unexpected thrill through him that was only magnified by his possessive body language. Sherlock wasn't normally one for giving up control to others, but this was... _different_. Another aspect of himself he should have already spotted, if it hadn't been for the fact that it was more difficult to examine oneself than it was to examine others. Chasing after and questioning murderers hadn't just been for the fun of the game, the puzzles, the sense of superiority and triumph when he inevitably won. It was also for the thrill of playing with intelligent predators hiding in human skins.

Sherlock draped his arms around Seb's neck and rocked against him, confident that this round of Russian roulette wouldn't end with his death.

Seb wrapped his arms around his hips, standing as he lifted Sherlock who, in spite of his thin frame, was not a light man. He lowered them to the plush rug on Jim's floor with Sherlock beneath him, legs still wrapped around his middle. Everything around them had been bought and paid for by that man, Sebastian's employer. More than an employer, so much more that the term seemed almost silly. Jim may as well have owned him.

Sherlock knew as much. While he endeavored not to merely be one more toy in Jim's collection, favored or not, Seb had already embraced his role. Even if he wanted more, he stayed right where Jim wanted him and did exactly what he was told - one part tool, one part pet, and even that portion seemed to be kept for amusement more than companionship. Sebastian was a killer kept on a leash of words and glances, arching up and begging for an affectionate touch from his keeper that never came.

Sherlock wondered if he'd ever been as equally cruel to John. His fingers stroked through Seb's blond hair.

Deft fingers unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt until he was lying bare chested under Sebastian. They made a unique contrast, Sherlock's smooth, creamy skin against Seb's, tanned and scarred. He began undoing Sherlock's trousers, pulling them a shade roughly down his hips until they caught at his knees. Seb worked them off, smiling his confident smile until Sherlock was free, entirely naked but for the shirt still wrapped around his arms. Seb pressed back between his thighs, forcing Sherlock to part them wide for him while he draped his body over the detective's. It was very clear what Seb wanted to do him. But that was crossing a line reserved for Jim.

Despite his confidence that there were certain restrictions Sebastian wouldn't break, both sexually and in terms of bodily injuries, Sherlock had to fight down a surge of anxiety as the bodyguard stripped him down. The efficient, practiced movements reminded him uncomfortably of a hunter field-dressing a fresh kill. He kept wary eyes on Seb as the man pressed him into the floor, all too aware that he had few ways of fighting back if this got too intense for his tastes. Seb already had a weight advantage over him, and in this position he didn't even have leverage and momentum to work with.

None of this dampened his body's obvious interest; he grew visibly harder when Sebastian pinned his wrists with one hand. And _still_ Seb was smiling, teeth too white and too sharp set against a suggestive curve of mouth.

He might have enjoyed the tension in Sherlock's limbs and the quick, nervous movements of his eyes, especially when they were staring so widely into his own. Sherlock was normally a very confident man. And Seb had watched him in his element back in London long enough to know this. He'd even tried to hide it from Jim when he could. The short time Sherlock had been in their company he'd resorted to displays of anger and rebellion, hiding whatever anxieties he surely had about Jim and Sebastian. Now, however, Seb could see that anxiety creeping into his eyes as much as it was exciting his body, and that did something for the hunter that no silent, unresponsive flesh ever could. Not even when he'd been allowed to beat a man so thoroughly earlier that day in a way he never could with Sherlock. He ground his hips roughly into the body below him. His teeth descended on Sherlock's neck, just like they had both done to Jim.

Pain and rough pleasure mixed, forcing a gasp out of Sherlock as Seb pounced on him. Sherlock's eyes went dark in a split second and he tilted his head to give Seb more skin to work with. The other man stopped just short of drawing blood; Sherlock was going to be patterned with bruises when they were done. Sherlock bared his teeth and hissed at the feel of rough cloth sliding against him. "Take those off." Seb seemed to ignore him and Sherlock grunted in frustration, writhing to try to avoid the friction that was getting more uncomfortable than anything else.

A deep rumble of a chuckle vibrated from Sebastian's chest to Sherlock's. "Too rough?" he asked with a vicious thrust of his hips. The hard ridge of Sebastian's flesh strained against the material of his trousers. It had to have been uncomfortable even for him. Sherlock couldn't move his hands to find a better position or hold on to get some leverage. When there was a defined welt against the side of his neck, Seb leaned back to survey the work. Sherlock lay sprawled beneath him with wild hair and a large, reddening bruise on his skin. "Oh yeah, that'll look good on you in the morning."

"We'll see if Jim thinks so," Sherlock answered with a grin, eying Sebastian's bare neck and shoulders. It didn't seem right to not leave him marked in return. "Get back down here and I'll make us a matched set." His smile curled a little wider, lust and curiosity layered over the undercurrent of fear; the impassive mask was gone, a bit of Sherlock's core exposed. This must have been what Moriarty had spotted so many years ago. Sherlock watched Seb with the dark, analytical eyes of a small child pulling the wings off insects just to see what would happen.

The change had an unusual effect on the bodyguard. His lips parted and the mocking smile disappeared. His eyes darkened. Sebastian recognized that look on Sherlock's face; it was the same as Jim's. His heart beat rapidly and his hard length pressed between them twitched. Without a moment's more hesitation, he lowered himself and bared his neck to Sherlock. Seb's hands squeezed possessively around pale wrists. His hips eased their harsh rocking motion.

Sherlock stopped struggling, making a small noise of appreciation as the pressure increased on his wrists. To his surprise and delight, Seb did as he'd been told. Sherlock nuzzled against the skin for a moment, observing the man's rapid pulse before moving close to his ear. "Good boy," he purred. After a moment's examination Sherlock picked the perfect spot to mark - just high enough that the bruise would show above Seb's collar, but not so high that it would be overshadowed by his jawline. Sherlock's teeth latched onto the skin and he sucked, forceful enough that there was no chance it wouldn't leave a purple rosette.

Sebastian gasped. His large body was a solid mass of heat, melting into Sherlock. With one hand, he undid his trousers, kicked off his boots, and wriggled out of them. Finally, he and Sherlock were pressed together with nothing between them but their own flesh. Seb's pulse beat rapidly against Sherlock's tongue. His hips slid smoothly against the detective's, shuddering as his mind tried to reconcile the qualities of the man that was his obsession within Sherlock as well.

Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment, shuttering out any visual information so he could concentrate on his other senses. He moaned against Seb's neck and bit harder as the man finally did as he'd asked. The friction was still rough as their hips slotted together, but warm skin was a vast improvement from cloth and metal. Sherlock released Seb and took a moment to admire his work - the tanned skin already bore a circle of dark red. He'd noticed the bodyguard's change in attitude and wasn't planning on letting it go without a bit of exploration. "Suddenly so obedient. Did you decide to let me rip you apart instead?"

Hot breath washed over Sherlock's skin when Seb gasped, torn by his desire to dominate the man who'd interrupted his life with Jim and his desperation to yield to a man who sounded so, _so_ much like Jim.

Sebastian brought Sherlock's wrists down to his sides and lifted himself just high enough to look at Sherlock. "You're lucky you can do that to me," he said in a breath of air. The unsaid 'no one else but Jim ever could' still sounded loud and clear to Sherlock. But if Jim wouldn't have Sebastian, then perhaps this was all he needed. He didn't know how parallel this side of Sherlock ran to his employer, but it was something and it still made his blood run hot. If he couldn't have Jim, then he could at least have Sherlock.

Seb drew his fingers over Sherlock's full lips, running them between the parted skin. "Suck."

Sherlock leaned up as best he could and took Seb's fingers into his mouth, teasing the pads with his tongue. His confidence had waned a bit as soon as Seb took control again, but Sherlock covered it with bravado. He had enough holes in his general knowledge to be uncertain of where Seb was taking this. Sucked fingers probably felt a bit erotic, with the suggestive imagery combining with densely packed nerve endings, but Sherlock didn't think that was normally an end activity in itself. Spit was occasionally used as lubricant, but normally it would be deposited in one's palm for easier application.

Sherlock's mind leaped the gap in the logic and he paused, his whole body tensing as he realized what the blond man was intending.

Seb laughed. "Don't get scared on me now," he said though he was clearly enjoying it. He withdrew the digits from Sherlock's mouth and trailed the hand down his abdomen, watching it dip as Sherlock sucked in a breath. He lingered at the trail of fine hair just bellow Sherlock's navel, then each crease between thigh and hip bone, watching the tension grow in his narrow eyes until Seb's hand diverted and wrapped around Sherlock's length instead.

Sherlock's hips tilted automatically, thrusting up against Seb's hand. "I suppose I should have expected as much." Seb's fingers tightened and Sherlock groaned, letting his head fall back against the carpet. Sebastian apparently enjoyed dishing out psychological torment as well as physical. Sherlock watched him with half-lidded eyes, noting what drew Sebastian's gaze and where it lingered. "I've already done this."

"And I suppose that means it's not worth repeating?" Seb chuckled. Sherlock was rocking enthusiastically into his grip in spite of his complaints. Seb licked his fingers again quickly, refreshing their wetness. "But it sure got you to relax, didn't it?" And then he slipped them lower, massaging over the scrotum, pressing into the perineum. He kept his thumb there, applying pressure while his fingers teased over the ring of muscle below.

Sherlock quivered underneath him; his mind and body were at odds again, wanting more of that pressure but balking against the idea of being penetrated. His teeth clenched in frustration. "It's worth repeating, it just wasn't the-" Seb's fingers paused and Sherlock's hips tried to jerk away, fearful of what came next. "...p-point of the exercise," he finished lamely. Seb had him pinned; he wasn't going anywhere.

Another rumbling laugh came from the man above him. "Is that so?" He leaned down so that they were nose to nose. "Then you won't mind if I do this?" He pressed one finger over the ring, slowly sinking it into Sherlock's flesh. His nails were blunt and short, but his fingers were large. The press was a tease, going no further than the first knuckle before he slipped it back out an in again slowly.

Sherlock's spine had stiffened as soon as he felt himself being breached; even slicked with spit, Seb's finger had left a burning sensation as the muscles stretched and tensed against intrusion. Seb withdrew the digit and Sherlock exhaled, giving the man an angry glare. He didn't see much point to that particular activity if it felt so uncomfortable and alien. "Is it always that unpleasant?"

"No. You get used to it when your body relaxes. But unfortunately," and Seb didn't look sorry in the least, "I've no idea where he's hidden the lube in this place." He slipped it back in, deeper this time, a smile curling over his lips at Sherlock's wince of discomfort.

Sherlock tried to take the advice that had been laced through Seb's statement, but it was difficult to get his body to obey. Seb wasn't giving him much time to adjust. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he considered leaning up and biting the other man. He could always call it off if it got too intense. Probably. "Thus far, I have no idea why anyone would want to do this."

Seb grinned. The look that came over him was positively insidious. He thrust the finger deeper and just before it seemed as though he were trying to make Sherlock uncomfortable on purpose, he crooked it upward, massaging over a _very_ sensitive place inside Sherlock's body.

Sherlock's eyes widened comically and his back arched as a strangled sort of whimper escaped him. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't _that_. He took a deep breath and caught the predatory look on Seb's face, suddenly very aware that the sniper had him at his mercy in more ways than one. "...fuck."

Sebastian kicked Sherlock's legs wider apart. Using his weight to hold Sherlock down and capturing his wrists in one hand, Seb hovered his mouth over Sherlock's, just out of reach. "That's right," he whispered, pressing again in one long stroke. The look on Sherlock's face sent his blood racing. The irony of it was that Seb knew he would never, probably no one would ever, be able to make Jim look this way, turned on and yet just as surprised at the same time. The light tremble of Sherlock's muscles beneath him and the squeak to his voice sent Sebastian's desire to new heights. He rocked his hips against Sherlock, gaining whatever friction he could. It was only just barely enough. With a growl, he pulled free and turned Sherlock over on his front, then lifted his hips so that he was on his knees. 

Sherlock's released hands clenched around handfuls of carpet and he shivered. He was still afraid of just how far Seb would go and how firm of a hold he had over himself, but one small taste had been enough to whet his appetite for more. Even if Seb might just use it to torture him. Sherlock turned his head and tried to deduce Seb's intentions. His own reactions had seemed to light a fire in the other man, but Sherlock couldn't tell whether that had broken the man's resolve.

The heavy weight of Seb's body settled over his back. One large hand ran up his side, over his shoulder, and down his arm, resting beside Sherlock's own while the other, newly slicked with saliva, breached him again. The hardness of Seb's cock pressed against his backside while the man buried his nose in the back of Sherlock's neck. "God I want to fuck you," he breathed into dark curls, sending a tingling sensation over Sherlock's skin. "We're just going to have to get creative."

He pressed Sherlock's knees together with his own, lined himself up, and slipped between his thighs.

Sherlock bit back a moan at Sebastian's words, then cried out in earnest as Seb pressed the right spot again while thrusting between his legs. The world contracted, as it had each time before with Jim, everything narrowing down to the presence behind him. The blond man's cock was so warm, a sharp contrast to the chill of the room. A wet, filthy sound assaulted Sherlock's ears as Seb's finger thrust into him and he pushed back against it. He could feel Seb laugh again, the vibrations from the diaphragm pressed against his spine and the man's breath on his neck. It wasn't enough.

"Bite me. Again."

"Liked that, did you?" Seb's muscled arm lifted. His hand buried in Sherlock's hair, gripping it tightly and pushing his head down enough to expose his neck and shoulder. The rough graze of stubble trailed over the back of his neck before Sebastian's teeth sank into it. He wasn't gentle, but the thrust of his hips and his finger deep inside Sherlock didn't stop.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sank into the contrasting sensations. He could see, now, why people felt drawn to this sort of activity. Sebastian's finger still burned slightly and his teeth sent a spike of pain through him, but it felt... _good_. It meshed with the pleasure in intriguing ways, morphing into something else entirely. What would have normally had him pulling away was instead only making Sherlock want more.

Sherlock shifted his weight until he could rest it on one arm. He spit into his other hand and reached down to stroke himself.

Sebastian groaned. His pace quickened. As it did, his teeth gnashed roughly into Sherlock's neck. Seb was losing himself in the two sensations, the electric friction between Sherlock's tightly pressed thighs, and the pain he was inflicting on the man underneath him. He yanked Sherlock's head roughly and bit harder, thrusting with enough force to push Sherlock down onto the rug and trapping him there with Seb's weight over his back.

Sherlock hissed; Seb was getting more vicious as he got closer to release. Sherlock was pressed flat against the floor, unable to move. Seb didn't seem to care, blanketing him as he continued to take his pleasure. Sebs hips slapped against Sherlock's backside, finger still moving inside him, and Sherlock could easily imagine what it would feel like if the digit was replaced by a cock. His mind fixed on the image and he shuddered. Seb pulled his hair again and Sherlock whimpered. His hips were trapped, stealing away any chance he had of controlling the rhythm.

The weight atop him shifted and the hand that had been in his hair let go and slid down his side and under his hip, wrapping around Sherlock's own and guiding the pace. Seb didn't slow down, but he now allowed just enough space for their hands to move again, even if Seb controlled the motion. His hips thrust in stuttering movements, his breath heaved in ragged pants against the back of Sherlock's neck and it wasn't long before he came, releasing a slick spurt of wetness between Sherlock's thighs.

The breath at the back of his neck and in his ears drove Sherlock mad. Seb's hand clenched over his own. Two more strokes and Sherlock followed, trembling beneath Sebastian for a few moments before he went limp. They laid against each other in a boneless pile, catching their breath. Something trickled down the side of Sherlock's neck; he raised his head just enough to look at the carpet and spot a drop of red. Evidently Seb had bit deeply enough at some point to draw blood.

Sherlock's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. He couldn't even pinpoint exactly what was funny; the whole situation was absurd.

The weight of Sebastian eased off his back. The man settled on his elbow to look down at Sherlock lying under him, face half smashed into the rug, hair in disarray, a small smear of blood running down his neck. "What's so funny?" Seb's voice rumbled, lower than usual.

"Everything. Nothing. I don't know," Sherlock rasped. He watched Seb out of the corner of his vision with a crooked smile. "I've suddenly decided bedding killers is more exciting that merely outwitting and catching them." So much for his theory that he only had sexual interest in Moriarty because they were so similar. Sebastian had been more enjoyable than he'd anticipated.

That got a chuckle out of Sebastian as well. Sherlock looked a little like his world was tilting, a touch hysterical. Seb drew his hand over Sherlock's face to push the curls aside. "Well, I certainly don't mind seeing you like this. And I'd have to agree, this is a much better game of cat and mouse."

Sherlock leaned into the touch, fighting the feeling of vertigo. He shouldn't have felt dizzy - he was nearly horizontal. "I'd judge this experiment a success." Recent memories replayed themselves in Sherlock's mind, painting Sebastian simultaneously as a dominant predator and the oddly submissive man he'd become at one key moment. Both were tempting. "I'm willing to continue this in the future, provided that we can keep Jim from killing you in a jealous rage."

The man above him snorted and moved off Sherlock. "Let's hope so." Seb stood and grabbed a towel from the kitchen to clean himself off, then tossed one down to Sherlock as well. "Although, he might just as well kill us for the state of the rug."

Sebastian truly was tempting fate. But as devoted to Jim as he was, he was also a man used to risking his life to get what he wanted. Somehow, Jim had prevented him from attempting to pursue him until Sherlock came along and gave Seb ideas. The truth was, much of his fate now rested in Sherlock's hands as much as Jim's. Sherlock would be the one to persuade Jim to allow Seb to join them, and Sherlock could just as easily destroy Seb if he so desired.

Sherlock snatched the towel out of the air. He wasn't able to quite suppress a wince; spit wasn't optimal as a lubricant. Sherlock set about gathering up his scattered clothing from the floor. "I've already ruined several sets of clothing. I don't think he'll begrudge me if I add a rug to the tally." Jim had ample funds to replace it, so any tantrum that was thrown would be more a matter of principle or inconvenience.

Sherlock draped his clothing over the crook of one arm and slunk closer to the bodyguard, waiting for Seb to look up before he caught the man's chin with his fingers. "He won't punish you if I have any say in it. I want to keep you around." Brief as their interaction had been thus far, that much was true. Sebastian was _interesting_ , more than simply ex-military hired muscle. Sherlock's eyes searched his face and he smirked, satisfied by what he'd found hidden there. He leaned in, stopping just short of kissing him. "I'm going to go clean up. Again. I trust you'll keep yourself occupied until I get back."

A breath of air passed between them and Seb was chuckling softly. "Now that's just the hormones talking," he said, but a small smile still played at his lips.

If Jim did decide to lash out at him, it remained to be seen whether Sebastian would try to defend himself or not. Judging by his personality around Jim, it was very likely that he wouldn't.

"Maybe." Sherlock's gaze swept over him, head to toe, resettling at the scars on Sebastian's chest. "Or maybe I've decided I want a pet tiger. If Jim doesn't want you, I'll gladly take you." A darkness settled into Sherlock's grey eyes as he grinned at Sebastian, echoing Moriarty for a moment. He stepped back and turned on his heel, heading for the stairs, curls a wild tangle and sticking up every which way.

Sebastian's back hit the countertop and he breathed a sigh as he watched Sherlock go. He'd come a long way from being the cold blooded detective Sebastian watched and the broken man he'd pulled from the river. Sebastian had been starving for so long for Jim's affection that the few moments he saw of him in Sherlock were becoming devastating. He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how fucked he was now that there were two of them. When Sherlock disappeared, Seb turned to run his towel under the faucet and clean up before he redressed.

Sherlock didn't waste any time once he got to his room. He turned on the shower and cleaned up in a matter of minutes, drying off and redressing. His reflection in the bathroom mirror made him pause.

The past few days had certainly pulled a number on him. He still looked vaguely haunted. Shadows persisted beneath his eyes. His lips were swollen from kissing and biting, the stitches in his lower lip red with irritation. The bite at the back of his neck had stopped bleeding but was stark against his pale skin, as was the prominent hickey on one side. Things felt as wildly out of control as when he'd spent years on the street - the current was pulling him along, and he was just trying to enjoy the ride without drowning.

Sherlock decided to leave the top buttons of his shirt unfastened. Jim would know what had happened as soon as he returned. Sherlock paused in the bedroom, his mind and gaze shying away from the drawer where he'd hidden John's jumper. He settled on his violin case instead, snatching it up on a whim and returning downstairs.

Sebastian was sitting on the couch with his head thrown back, eyes closed, one arm resting over the top, and a tumbler of vodka at his feet on the coffee table when Sherlock found him. He'd dressed again, apparently not as fussy about showering as Sherlock and Jim were after sweaty, bloody sex. He would have heard Sherlock's footsteps, but his eyes remained closed and he didn't attempt to move. No doubt he was contemplating his future and the changing dynamics between himself, Sherlock, and Jim.

Sherlock perched himself on the arm of the sofa opposite Sebastian. He opened the violin case and began preparing the instrument, leaving Seb to his thoughts. If the other man wanted to talk, he would. Sherlock licked his lips and shut his eyes. He tucked the violin under his chin and began to play - nothing recognizable, just pleasant strains of sound, each one flowing into the next and filling the empty air of the flat with warm tones.

The sound of the music roused Sebastian from his reverie enough to bring his head down from its comfortable position and watch Sherlock.

His long fingers deftly drew bow over string in such thoughtlessly precise movements that the instrument may have well been a part of his body. Hearing an instrument such as the violin up close was nothing like hearing a recording. No matter the quality of the sound, nor of the speakers, Seb imagined he had never heard anything quite so haunting as the vibrations drawn from Sherlock's strings. The blond man reached down and drew a long pull from his glass.

It was difficult to listen to music like that and remain in the moment. In the same way Sherlock drew the sound from the bow and wood, he drew memories from the lives of his listeners. Sebastian was no exception. The man's vibrant blue eyes rested on Sherlock's hands, watching them move to and fro, but Seb's mind was in a distant place.

Sherlock ignored Sebastian's presence, playing whatever came to mind. Occasionally classical pieces would slip into the stream of music. Melancholy tones were still woven into most of what the violin was voicing, but the raw anger and grief that had been present when Sherlock had played before were both gone. He wasn't playing to process or purge toxic emotions, but was simply playing for enjoyment.

Much of that came through not only in the music, but in Sherlock's posture throughout the performance.

Sebastian's eyes wandered over his body. Sherlock's face was relaxed, pleasantly but without expression. His shoulders and back held little tension beyond what was needed to hold the instrument. Seb took another pull of vodka and leaned back into the sofa. The past would be kept in the past. He was here now and as daring as he was being in his relations with Sherlock, he was glad to be.

Still, it was disconcerting for the both of them when the elevator chimed from the other side of the apartment and the doors swished open, just loud enough to be heard through Sherlock's music.

Jim had returned. He came in walking briskly and carrying a gust of the nippy air of the street with him as though it had clung to his coat.

Sherlock had just enough awareness to note the additional presence, even through the trance he tended to slip into when performing. He finished the last of the phrase and let the notes trail off and die. Their ghosts hung in the air for a second or two, a soundless hum in the atmosphere.

"Well!" Jim announced before he'd even reached them. Seb's head turned immediately and his posture straightened. Jim came striding into the living room and he nearly tossed the laptop on the opposite section of the sofa Seb rested on. " _Someone's_ been busy while I've been gone." His eyes cast to the both of them. Sebastian went to rise, but Jim's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Ah-ah, no. You don't want to be leaving just yet, do you, pet?" His heavy lidded black eyes stared down at Seb from above a nose raised high in the air. Slowly, the hunter lowered himself back down.

"I was experimenting." Sherlock tucked the violin and bow back in the case, snapping it shut. He slid from his perch to a seat next to the bodyguard. One hand reached out, stroking a line down the man's neck. "Sebastian was good enough to oblige me."

" _Reeeeeeaally?_ " Jim's voice sharpened until it could have cut the glass of their ceiling high windows. He sat himself down on the coffee table directly in front of them, leaning back and watching Sherlock's hand with interest and then throwing himself forward so that his elbows rested on his knees and his hands came together, staring into Sebastian's eyes. Even though he remained perfectly still, the much larger man seemed to shrink under the weight of his attention. "And why might he have done that?"

"We had a discussion over dinner. I had a theory I wanted to test, and I negotiated the terms. He agreed, so long as we didn't cross certain lines that might upset you. I think he's been feeling a bit neglected." Sherlock stroked the bodyguard again, the way one might soothe an anxious pet. He smiled, gaze drifting from Seb to Jim. "I don't know why you haven't tried him. He was enjoyable even without the blood."

Jim's eyes closed. His lips stretched into a sardonic smile. His head fell between his folded hands and he began chuckling. "Oh my dear Sherlock," Jim's head snapped up. "I've really unleashed something in you, haven't I? Quite the stamina you've had, I must say." His eyes shifted to Sebastian. "And you…." Jim's head tilted from one side to the other, examining prey. "Still feeling neglected after what we did earlier today?" And then Jim launched himself at Sebastian, landing in the man's lap right next to Sherlock with his head trapped in Jim's hands. Jim's teeth bared. "I'm _wounded_."

To his credit, Sebastian didn't move to save himself. He jumped and winced at Jim's words, face screwing up in pain as Jim's fingers clawed into his skin and his words cut underneath it.

" _Jim._ " Sherlock had turned, moving closer and trying to draw Jim's attention away from Moran. His other arm circled the smaller man's waist and he leaned in to whisper in Jim's ear. "Don't break my pet. I want to keep him." His pressed his lips against Jim's neck in a brief kiss, trying to distract him with affection. "If you're jealous, we can share."

It was working.

Jim's mouth fell open in a small gasp of air. The three of them were suddenly nearly sharing it. The little criminal's hands stopped clawing into Sebastian's scalp. The gunman's hands were fists in the cushions of the couch, anchoring himself in place so that he would not react. Jim shivered above him as Sherlock pressed close, possibly as shocked by the forwardness Sherlock newly possessed as he was appreciative of it. After a moment of tense silence, with heavy lidded eyes, Jim stroked a forefinger lightly down Seb's nose. "How very thoughtful." As dazed as Jim's gaze appeared to be, there was still a calculating presence behind it. He was aware of what he meant to Sebastian, and he was also aware of what Sherlock was doing, but it seemed, ultimately, that he approved of the attention. His thumb pressed over Sebastian's lower lip and the man exhaled softly. "He did 'take care of you' after all, didn't he? Didn't you, Sebastian?" Jim's eyebrow quirked. After a moment Sebastian nodded slowly. Those had been Jim's orders exactly.

"He follows orders very well." Sherlock turned his gaze to Sebastian, who suddenly had to contend with both Sherlock and Jim staring him down. "Yours, particularly." No matter what sort of hold he might manage to get over Sebastian, Sherlock was certain that he'd never be able to reach the point where he could override Jim's wishes. Moriarty would always come first.

Perhaps Jim just needed to be reminded. Sebastian raised his head to look into Jim's eyes, silent acknowledgement of that truth. Jim's fingers stroked down his cheek, scratching lightly when they encountered stubble. "Poor Sebastian has been through hell," he whispered. "And then back again." Jim smile said all he needed to that he had been the one to make that happen. Somewhere along the line, Jim had saved Sebastian. And then rebuilt him. Jim leaned down so that he was sharing breath with the blond man, their lips barely brushing as he spoke. "Of course he does. And I trust my life in his hands every day. He'd better."

Sherlock observed them with a measure of fascination. He'd picked up bits and pieces of what must have happened, but not enough to form a cohesive whole. Someday he'd wring more clues out of one or both of them and satisfy his curiosity. As it was, Sebastian was frozen, barely daring to breathe with Jim so close. Sherlock smiled and briefly wondered if the sniper would break if they both made him the focus of their attention. "And you've trusted him with mine. I know you had him fish me out of the river."

"Indeed I did." Somehow that encouraged Jim to swipe his tongue across Sebastian's lower lip in a quick flick of motion. It could have been a belated thank-you, 'thank you, Sebastian, for doing this for me'. It could have been that Jim was allowing Sherlock to have a temporary measure of control over his actions regarding the gunman. Either way, it made the blond man groan.

A sly smile touched Sherlock's lips. Playing with Jim was a gamble, but it was working out well thus far. Sherlock rewarded him with another kiss, then another, trailing up the line of his jugular. He leaned back to study the effect.

Jim's eyelids fluttered into slits. He gasped into Seb's mouth and then captured it with his own. He understood Sherlock's game, his next little psychological experiment, and it was working. Jim, though aware of it, was affected by Sherlock's provocations and letting himself be played. Underneath him, Sebastian groaned again. He opened up for Jim completely, but when his hands reached up to Jim's sides, Jim caught his wrists and pinned them down. He was still sitting on Seb's lap. Both of them were hard. There was non question that Jim's presence had given the gunman a very quick recovery time, but it was difficult to tell whether it was Sherlock's affections or simply his natural response to Sebastian's hardness that had caused Jim's reaction.

Sherlock was surprised that Jim was going along so easily; he couldn't tell whether the smaller man was just in the right mood to humor him, or whether Jim was so strongly effected by Sherlock's touch that he was doing whatever was necessary to encourage it.

Sherlock let his hand slide down to the small of Jim's back, absently plucking at the fabric until Jim's shirt was untucked. He snuck fingers underneath the layers and settled his palm over Jim's spine. "I'm afraid I'm spent for the day," he murmured, leaning back in to whisper in Jim's ear. "But that doesn't mean I can't keep you company."

Jim pulled back and left both men gasping softly. He let go of one of Sebastian's wrists to stroke a hand through his hair. So far his eyes hadn't moved to Sherlock, but all three of them could tell that half his attention never left him. "Don't you like it when he's demanding, Seb?" Jim whispered as though everything he did wasn't meant for Sherlock. "You know, I'm not sure whether to punish you or reward you." Jim's hand trailed down Sebastian's chest, rumpling the fabric of his shirt over his muscles. When he reached the hem of his trousers, he began working them open. Mouth pressed to the corner of Sebastian's mouth, he whispered, "So maybe I'll have to do both."

Sebastian gasped as Jim's hand wrapped around him, pulling him free of his trousers, and began stroking along his shaft right in front of Jim's spread legs.

A mischievous light entered Sherlock's eyes, making the grey glint like knifepoints. This was all new territory, but Sherlock was having trouble not pushing at the boundaries. The endorphin highs involved had drawn him in just like every other illicit substance he'd ever indulged in.

"You're wearing too much." Sherlock's fingers traced up the bumps and ridges of Jim's spine. "Pity. It'd be easier to touch you without all this." It was a terribly transparent attempt at manipulation; the test was in whether Jim would respond.

Throaty laughter poured out of Jim. He even tossed his head back for a moment before his eyes fell on Sebastian again. The blond's lips had parted, breathing in time to Jim's strokes. He was watching Jim through lowered lashes. "What do you think, Seb? Hm?" Jim's smile was reptilian. "Am I wearing too much?"

Sebastian apparently decided to throw caution to the wind because, finally, he broke his silence. "Yeah. Yeah, you're wearing too much." That send another peal of giggles through Jim, but he leaned back and opened his arms, allowing Sherlock access to his clothing.

Sherlock stood briefly, moving around until he was behind Jim. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around the smaller man, painstakingly unbuttoning his jacket and shirt. "Not that it doesn't suit you, but we've already ruined a few sets of clothing. It would be a shame to ruin any more. We may end up having to replace your whole wardrobe."

Sherlock caught Jim's wrists and brought them closer, fiddling with the buttons at the cuffs. He spared a glance over Jim's shoulder for Sebastian and smiled darkly. Seb was going to owe him. Deeply.

Their eyes locked for only a moment, but in that moment it was plainly clear that between Jim and Sherlock, Seb knew he was fucked.

Jim leaned his head back and closed his eyes while he waited for Sherlock to remove his jacket. And Sebastian watched them, Jim open like some great messiah, worshipped by the gunman and tended to by the detective whose long arms wrapped around his body to peel away its outer layers. When Jim's head fell back down, he was smiling a little wicked smile at Sebastian. Jim could have asked him what he saw when he watched the two of them, but no matter how much awe was infused in Seb's words, they could only have fallen short, and Jim already knew.

Sherlock stripped off Jim's jacket and shirt, tossing them behind him to the floor. His hands trailed to Jim's waist and pushed him forward into Sebastian. He moved into the empty space behind Jim, straddling the smaller man and Seb alike. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim's torso and tucked his face against Jim's neck, delighting in the minute trembling it provoked in Jim. "What do you think we should do to him?"

Jim moaned, pressed between them once again. Sherlock was a solid source of heat behind his back. He was nearly sitting on Sebastian's straining cock now, and his arms rested above Sebastian's shoulders to hold him upright. Seb's eyes darted to Sherlock and then back to Jim when he bit Seb's lower lip. "Sebastian is quite skilled in torture." He was talking to Sherlock even though the words were spoken against the gunman's lips. "As you received a taste of this morning. But then again, so am I. Which you have not seen, and of which I do think he needs to be reminded. And we do have so many methods to choose from," Jim grinned. Sebastian's pulse spiked. "but the real question is: what works best for our dearest Seb?"

Seb looked stricken, hunter turned into prey. Sherlock found the play of emotions on the man's face enthralling. "Hmmm. Perhaps he'll tell us. _Tiger_ ," he snapped, waiting for Seb to give him his attention. Blue eyes finally met his own and he smiled. "Jim thinks you need a reminder. Pick your poison."

Sebastian's face went red. Jim picked up one of his wrists and placed his thumb over the pulse point. He moved closer and Seb's eyes darted from one man to the other. The gunman licked his lips. "I can hurt you, and _stimulate_ you," Jim purred into his neck while nimble fingers found his cock. "Or I can be _very_ nice," he rolled his hips an arched his back against Sherlock, "but you won't get to come." Jim squeezed and Sebastian hissed. "Or I can let you come, and we can just have a little chat…." Jim's sharp teeth pressed against his skin in a smile while his hand worked Sebastian. The blond man was gasping. "…about times long past. _I should never have saved you._ " Jim's voice changed suddenly, a cruel lilt to his whisper and his hand didn't stop, " _Should have let you rot in that stinking prison, forever atoning for your crimes until you died. You think you're meant for greatness now? You're useless to me-"_

"No," Sebastian gasped, his face screwed up in pain, "Jim, stop. Just…just hurt me. Please." And Jim stopped. His hands became gentle, one stroking Sebastian's hair while he placed a chaste kiss at the corner of the man's lips.

Sherlock hadn't had much patience for mind games in the past. Torture had always been his brother's interest - the study of the physical and mental stimuli needed to break a living being down, crack them open or make them dance along his strings. Sherlock had played along once, long ago, when Mycroft had needed a partner for his con games, but it had failed to hold his interest in the long term.

This was... different, somehow. Possibly because both sides involved could hold Sherlock's attention independently. Jim wasn't playing with a boring, mundane John Doe taken off the street or an unsophisticated animal. "Do you want me to help?" Sherlock asked. It didn't matter, really, which one of them answered.

"Absolutely." Jim sat back and stretched before Sebastian, cracking his shoulders and leaning into Sherlock. Jim tilted his head back to meet his gaze. He drew a hand up to catch Sherlock's head and bring him down for a kiss. They melted that way above Sebastian, Jim's body stretching to meet Sherlock's lips, Sherlock's long figure draped over the smaller man. Seb exhaled slowly and rested his hands on Jim's thighs.

In one clean sweep, almost in slow motion, Jim's body twisted. His arm swung out and the next thing Seb knew was that he was spitting blood and facing the wrong direction. Jim had backhanded him across the face.

Sherlock's attention was drawn from Jim's body and lips to the sharp sound. Sebastian was just recovering from the backhand, eyes slightly dazed and blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Sherlock's breath left him in a sigh and his arms tightened around Jim. Just because his own body was worn out from the day and incapable of reacting to the stimulus didn't mean he couldn't be aroused. Sherlock reached out and wiped at the red trail with a finger. He licked it clean without hesitation.

Jim chuckled. "Let's see how much more we can draw." His hand cupped Sebastian's chin gently, a mockery of sympathy, while blue eyes watched him warily. The purpling bite marks on either side of Jim's neck. left by both Sebastian and Sherlock stood out against his pale skin, but it was hard for Seb to imagine that he had given Jim one of those. Not when Jim had been pliant before when now Seb was at his mercy. 

Jim opened his shirt, button by button until scarred skin was revealed. He spit into his hand and took hold of Seb's cock again, pressing it to the front of his own trousers as he stroked. For a moment, the man underneath him was in complete bliss. Until Jim reached behind him, over Sherlock's leg where they tangled together, and pulled a small switch knife out of his sock.

Sherlock kept an eye on the blade, reaching around Jim to tug Seb's shirt lower. The fabric bunched around his elbows and acted as a mild restraint, locking Seb's arms close to his body. Sherlock smoothed his hands over the man's bare shoulder. "Mind where you cut, and how deep," Sherlock cautioned. Not only did Sherlock not want Seb terribly damaged, he was certain that he was going to have trouble resisting the urge to touch and taste the wounds Jim was going to inflict.

Jim's eyes gleamed in the light. "If he survived it once, he can survive it again."

Seb was just beginning to wonder at the words before Jim leaned down to sprawl over his chest and the blade found the end of Seb's scars. "Tell me Sebastian," Jim purred as the tip dipped into flesh, parting the smallest seam of it smoothly, "who would you say was scarier, the tiger? ….or me? I know which one gets you hotter."

"Do you really have to talk through this?" Sebastian breathed heavily through his nose. Jim was still stroking him as he cut a path through the old scar, carefully following the valley of it, making it fresh again.

The blade sank deep and Seb hissed. "Hmm….yes," Jim laughed softly.

Sherlock shifted closer to Jim as he cut. He left one hand on Seb's scarred shoulder, the other arm wrapping tightly against Jim. The air around his hand felt hot where it rested on Jim's stomach. Sherlock licked his lips, watching Jim's handiwork as he opened a line of crimson. He let his hand drift lower to Jim's strained trousers. Clever fingers quickly released the fastenings and dipped inside. The back of Sherlock's hand brushed Seb as he pulled Jim's cock free.

Jim shivered under him. A breath escaped his lips, dazed now when he had been composed before. He moaned and thrust his hips into it when Sherlock stroked, matching the rhythm with his hand around Sebastian. "Oooh, yessssss," Jim hissed. "You never answered my question," he added when he'd regained some composure, taking his knife back to Sebastian's scars. It was actually rather impressive that Jim could keep the rhythm of his right hand moving while his left drew the knife over Seb's skin, but the hunter didn't really want to interrupt him and find out where that talent met its limit.

"Think you already know the answer," Seb ground out between clenched teeth.

"Seb, don't tempt him," Sherlock warned. He released Jim just long enough to spit into his hand. They were dancing a very thin line with Jim, counterbalancing his anger with pleasure. Sherlock had the suspicion that things would go very badly for Seb should that balance be broken. "He already knows the answer. That isn't what he wants. He wants to hear you say it."

The top of the first cut mark was starting to bleed in earnest, a few drops rolling down the skin. Sherlock's eyes dilated as they watched the path of the blood. It was the same brightness he remembered from earlier that day, but it didn't belong to a stranger.

Jim smiled prettily down at him, teeth flashing.

Seb let out a shaky breath, muscle quivering under Jim's knife that refused to slow in its progress across his chest. " _You_ ," he groaned.

Jim's eyelids fluttered shut. He took a moment to enjoy the sensations Sherlock was working through him, but his knife stopped and was pressing down deep into one point that made Sebastian groan and cry out.

Sherlock's free hand left Seb's shoulder, wrapping around Jim's wrist and pulling the knife back. A fresh well of blood sprung from the deeper cut and had covered the blade. Sherlock's breathing turned shallow. "Don't break our pet," he murmured. He brought Jim's hand back further still, leaning forward over the smaller man's shoulder so he could lick the knife clean.

Two pairs of eyes watched him as his tongue carefully swept over the flat of the blade. It was razor sharp; Jim would carry nothing less. A deep groan escaped the criminal's mouth. His pupils had widened again, dilating so much that his eyes seemed huge. The groan turned into a growl, and when his gaze fell on Sebastian again, it turned into a _real_ growl. A very familiar one, in fact. Seb jerked. His eyes went wide, and his breath stopped before his knee jerk instincts realized the sound had come from Jim. How a body, a human body, so small could make that noise was unnatural. Jim bent low over his prey while he continued the rumbling sound.

Seb closed his eyes and gasped. His flesh jumped in the criminal's fist. " _Jesus, Jim_."

Sherlock stroked Jim faster, leaning closer as Jim did. He released the smaller man's wrist and hoped that wasn't a mistake. Seb looked frightened and turned on, more fragile than Sherlock had seen him before, and the liquid color streaking his shoulder and chest was so very tempting. Sherlock was surprised at how strong the urge was to press his mouth to the wound, tear into the bodyguard and taste him, but he couldn't quite reach him with the way they were sitting. Not with Jim pressed between them both.

Jim took the opportunity instead. His dark head dove down and his teeth latched onto a deep incision of the cut. Sebastian cried out in pain. The only fortuitous part was that it cut off Jim's growl. When Jim let go, his mouth was sticky red and gashes of teeth marks now joined the path of his blade and the tiger's claw before it. Sebastian's head fell to the side, but Jim caught him by the hair and dragged him back. Their lips found one another, and this time Jim seemed to be kissing in earnest. Their hips snapped in time to Sherlock's rhythm.

Jim's blade came to Sebastian's throat and he quickened the pace. He was laughing through their kiss, both of them high on endorphins and Seb terrified Jim was just going to end it right there.

Most people would have been horrified at the scene, but Sherlock was caught by the aesthetics of the two of them. Since he couldn't join the kiss or leave a mark of his own across Seb's scars, Sherlock latched his teeth onto Jim's neck instead. Another bruise joined the ones he and Seb had made earlier. The skin beneath Sherlock's tongue vibrated with Jim's laughter. Sherlock opened his hand and caught both of the other men, beginning to stroke them together.

The laughter turned into a strangled sound, and Sebastian's hips stuttered now that they were pressed together. Jim pulled back, dragging Seb's bottom lip with him while blade pressed forward, drawing a bead of blood from Seb's neck. Seb's eyes closed and he came hard, pulsing into Sherlock's hand, his body deciding quickly that it wanted release before he died.

Jim let go and threw his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, his hips still rocking into Sherlock's hand. He turned his head and offered his bloody mouth to the detective.

Sherlock accepted without hesitation. His tongue delved in as their mouths locked together, savoring the taste. He let go of Seb and tightened his hold on Jim's cock, increasing the pace. His free hand wrapped possessively around Jim's throat. In that moment, Sherlock forgot himself, forgot everything but the man he was wrapped around. Jim, who denied and dominated all others, was pliant for _him_. That was a power and ego trip that couldn't be matched. Bit by bit, Sherlock was beginning to accept the unspoken offer.

Jim jerked in his hand and a stream of liquid flowed through his fingers. The smaller body shuddered in his arms and Jim whined high in his throat. Apparently, that acceptance had quite an affect on him as well. The blade in his hands fell to the sofa.

Blue eyes watched them from below, two men who looked more like creatures in that moment, untouchable, unknowable.

Sherlock held onto Jim even after the smaller man went still and melted against him. The detective wrapped his arms around Jim and cradled him like a favored possession, paying no attention to the sticky mess one hand left behind. Their kissing grew softer until Sherlock finally pulled back and licked the last of the blood from his lips. Jim was staring up at him and Sherlock found himself sinking into the inky depth of that gaze.

If Jim was Death in love, then Sherlock was fast becoming the same. And the blue eyed reaper beneath them looked on with awe.

Jim traced a finger over Sherlock's brow as though that said everything there were no words for. For them, the English language was fast falling away. 

They connected. Words passed silently between them, written in small movements and shadows. The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly in a ghost of a smile. A bit more was understood, if not yet agreed upon. Sherlock was still feeling his way along this new path, but Jim had started to find the right hooks to pull him in.

Sherlock was beginning to want, and he'd always had poor self-control.

Jim smiled in return, and both would remember this moment for a very long time to come.

When his gaze finally drifted down to Sebastian, the spell was broken and they were back in a world bigger than just the two of them. Jim bent and pressed his fingers to the openly bleeding wound on Seb's chest. The hunter winced, but Jim pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Get that cleaned up. You're done here." Seb nodded and the two men moved off him, allowing him to pick himself up with some difficulty.

Sherlock watched the bodyguard stand and beat an undignified retreat. He waited until he was sure Seb was out of earshot before glancing at Jim. He wasn't sure what to say, what _needed_ to be said, after what had passed between them. "...I still want him. I'd rather you not punish him every time I decide to play with him." Sherlock didn't need to state that Seb wasn't a danger to Jim. The relationships were unequal and not comparable - they were very different beings.

Jim waved a hand carelessly brushing off the concern. "That's fine. You're welcome to ask anything of him, or of me, you wish, but now he knows where he stands. And where I stand." Jim crossed the room to inspect his face in an ornamental mirror. After deciding he was decent enough, he shrugged on his shirt and flopped lazily down on the other section of the sofa. He glanced at his phone before throwing it on the table. "Poor Richard had to leave suddenly after his mother's health turned tragically for the worse. He won't be revisiting London or taking calls for quite some time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and settled on the other end of the sofa. "So you've moved the base of operations. Permanently?" he asked. Sherlock hadn't been certain whether Jim's decision to spirit him away to New York was a temporary move to get him out of dangerous territory or a matter of returning home with his prize, so to speak. James Moriarty was undoubtedly from Ireland - as much as the man was a chameleon, the accent bled through at times. Sherlock wondered if Jim would ever tell him that story should he ask.

Jim gave a short laugh and tipped his head back on the couch, much in the same way Sebastian had done when he wanted to relax. "Operations run wherever I am. There is no base. As long as there's working electricity and an available connection…I can be anywhere."

Sherlock took in the easy, boneless grace Jim sank into when he was... well, not _unguarded_ , but less so. Part of it was still calculated, still a show - perhaps, after so long, Jim couldn't turn off the impulse to perform, slipping from one mask to another. Still, there was an honesty to it, a lessening of tension that wasn't the same as the smooth stillness that signified the man was about to strike.

Sherlock realized he was staring and averted his gaze to hands.

The sound of water running and drawers closing came from the kitchen. The scent of alcohol drifted through the air. Seb was cleaning his wounds.

Jim beckoned to Sherlock with an easy smile. He held out his hand. "Come here. Tomorrow we'll go to work. Tonight I only want to enjoy your company." 

Sherlock hesitated for a beat or two, still reeling from the changes the day had wrought. He'd always been in a state of rapid flux in his relationships with others; he could take an instant liking to a stranger based on his deductions, only for them to rapidly fall into disfavor with a word or action. The inverse had happened, so quickly that Sherlock was still having trouble processing how and when his feelings on the matter had shifted.

Jim's hand still hovered in the air, an open invitation. Sherlock took it. He shifted closer, examining Jim with a wary eye.

Jim drew him in until Sherlock was standing in front of him, then farther until Sherlock was sitting next to him on the sofa. They looked out at the skyline over Central Park as they had done before, but this time the perspective had changed subtly.

The lights were reflected in a single pinprick in Jim's eyes, otherwise swallowed up whole like he did everything else he encountered. He looked through the window as though the world could be theirs..

Moments passed in silence, but for the small sounds issuing from the kitchen as Sebastian took care of his injuries. Sherlock's awareness of the warmth at his side grew, along with an amount of discontent. He shifted and draped an arm around Jim's shoulders, pulling him closer still. "You never talk as yourself."

Brown eyes looked curiously up at him. A hint of a smile played at Jim's lips. "There are a lot of people in here." He leaned into Sherlock's side, resting his weight into the taller man. 

When the elevator chimed and the doors swished closed, they were alone. 

Jim's eyes fell to Sherlock's collar, and he seemed to be considering the statement seriously. "A good disguise is worth more than the best security money can buy. I pick up traits here and there…. Sometimes a role will stay with me after I've dropped it. Other times I suspect my nature will influence what was otherwise a fundamentally innocent role." It was quite possible that Jim didn't know _how_ to be 'himself' any longer, unable to sort out what he'd picked up and what had been him all along. "If any have come the closest to me as myself, it would be the ones who want you. You've been with me for longer than you know."

Understanding dawned on Sherlock's face as he stared back down at Jim. "I know what you mean, pieces of other things staying with you afterwards." It wasn't so much that Sherlock wasn't himself as much as he'd been added to over the years, one thing or another adding another layer over the top. "I have a hard time remembering, sometimes, what things were acquired later."

A police helicopter flew low over the far side of the city and Jim rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, watching it go. It should have turned around, they were right there waiting.

"I usually don't mind. Most of the time it's very useful." But Jim hadn't needed to drop the act for anyone before, not until Sherlock arrived. Sherlock, who was intelligent enough to know that he wasn't seeing the full extent of Jim, and miraculously also intelligent enough to understand why. 

Sherlock hummed in response. He was still slightly awed that the man beside him was even this quiet and relaxed with him, and _only_ him. Submissive wasn't quite accurate; Moriarty was utterly ruthless with anyone else that crossed his path, but that intensity had always softened and transmuted into something different when Sherlock was the focus. "You know so many pieces of my life, but I know nearly nothing of yours. You mask too well for me to read some things."

Jim made a humming sound of acknowledgement. "You're curious, aren't you? 'What kind of life created the great Moriarty?'" and he smiled Moriarty's smile up at Sherlock in a flash. "I'm afraid I'm not used to sharing, but I will at least say that I was alone most of it." His fingers found a curl of Sherlock's hair. "As much as I enjoy thinking about our past, I am more excited to see our future."

"And your vision for our future is having me by your side, helping you run your empire from the shadows?" Sherlock asked, a teasing note creeping into his tone. "The Consulting Criminal Couple? You have a lot of faith that I'll find your work as stimulating as you do."

"I have faith," Jim purred, "but if you do not, then you are welcome to go back to your old detecting ways. Perhaps I'll even have a few puzzles ready for you." Jim was confident that his work would stir Sherlock, and he was also confident that a criminal and a detective could manage within close quarters, even thrive together, should Sherlock choose not to give up his favorite pastime.

Sherlock went quiet and his eyes turned distant as he considered the offer. Guilt knifed him, a psychological pain that was almost physical in its intensity. Sherlock could easily picture the reactions of everyone back home to what had transpired that day. Mycroft would understand, full of acceptance even as he would try to shove Sherlock back onto a more acceptable path. Mrs. Hudson would have so much trouble believing it that she would likely dismiss everything and block it from her mind.

Lestrade and John... would be horrified. Even picturing it as a hypothetical situation, Sherlock could feel the tangible rejection that would result. He curled closer to Jim. "Something to keep me occupied wouldn't be amiss, but I'd rather not go back to detective work at the moment," Sherlock replied quietly.

Jim shifted so that his hand could stroke through Sherlock's hair around his ear and over the back of his scalp. The little criminal smiled, nodding so Sherlock could feel it. His hand through Sherlock's hair was comforting, the light scratch of nails soothing against his scalp. Sherlock's hair was soft. Jim seemed to enjoy touching it, hooking his fingers in the curls and watching them unravel.

They sat in silence that, between them, didn't seem so very silent at all, watching the lights of the city below, painted neon over a black canvass. It was their city now. Every city would be theirs.

An indeterminate amount of time passed, Sherlock pressed against Jim for reassurance and the smaller man obliging as the heart of the city beat beneath them, laid out behind glass like a beautiful living specimen. At last Sherlock moved, reluctantly disentangling them. "I need sleep." It was uncertain whether his exhaustion or the thoughts fluttering around his mind would win, but Sherlock knew he wouldn't rest at all if he didn't at least make an attempt.

Jim sighed softly and with a last brush of his hair, released Sherlock. Jim's eyes seemed unnaturally large at night. It had something to do with the way the shadows fell across his face, deepening the crevices around them and enhanced by his shorter stature, forcing him to look up. Those eyes followed Sherlock wherever he went. "Go. I'll be here in the morning."

Sherlock nodded and rose. The darkness that cloaked them made Sherlock seem unnaturally tall and thin, a deathly shadow drawn right from a child's nightmare and into reality. He brushed his fingertips over Jim's cheek before padding off towards the stairs. The only sound was the click as he closed his bedroom door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we get to see what John and company have been up to. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we take a step back....

The night after it happened, Mycroft didn’t sleep. 

For as much as the dreams of the Empire were dead and gone, the sun still never set on the British government in a metaphorical sense. There had been arrangements to make, all held in tones of polite, distant civility and cold sympathies. Few people who worked with Mycroft Holmes knew much about him at all, much less that he had family. He'd ignored the looks of surprise and the murmured consolations; they were meaningless. It was beyond their understanding and their words wouldn't change the stark reality of it all.

Mycroft had created automated programs for emergencies, when he couldn't be around to tend to things. He hadn't had a chance to test them before now. All he could do was hope they held against the bulk of his usual duties. The defense of Her Majesty's Government seemed so less important when a key piece of the kingdom was gone. The system was still functioning, everything locked into its proper orbit and revolving smoothly, but the sun was gone.

He packed up his portable workstation and went home, working through the night. He poured over the data cache Sherlock left him, working through the sequence of events that had led to his brother's downfall. 

A blink, and it was morning, and James Moriarty's face smiled at him hatefully from his monitor screen.

* * *

When John awoke, the first thought in his mind was that Sherlock was gone.

He had hoped he wouldn't remember, at least not for a few blessed moments. He laid in bed for what must have been an hour, staring at the ceiling and rolling onto one side and then the other, listening to his heart beating and wanting to tear it out of his chest. 

It wasn't fair that his was thrumming with life inside his chest and Sherlock's was not, and there was nothing John could do about it. He couldn't take the organ and give it to his friend in hopes of sustaining them both.

Sherlock was gone and John couldn't comprehend it. There was no sense to it, no reason why he should have had to die. He knew objectively that the killing he'd faced in war had been truly senseless. Sherlock's death had been calculated, but it didn't make a difference to John. There had been no need for it.

At a quarter past noon, John finally pulled himself out of bed.

John put on a pot of tea and waited at the kitchen table. He tried to eat something, but found he didn’t want to. Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door, locked probably for the first time her tenants had lived at 221b, and tried to get him to open it, but he just wasn't up to seeing anyone.

He'd cried in her arms the night prior, when he'd had to tell her what happened. It was the most unexpected and yet natural thing he had ever done with her. And he still didn't feel awkward about it. He doubted he ever would so long as he remembered what it had been like in those moments after it happened.

He was sitting back down at the table with his tea by the time the phone rang. John's heart leapt. He didn't know why; nothing anyone had to say to him would have mattered. The screen told him it was Lestrade.

With a sigh to fortify himself, John picked up. "Hello?"

"John. How are you holding up?" The DI's voice came through the phone gravelly, tired, and John supposed that he was going to endure people asking him this question for some time to come.

"Oh, you know…." But John found he couldn't bring himself to say one way or the other, neither 'alright' or 'right terrible' were enough to explain exactly how he was doing. Lestrade already knew anyway. "Any news from the Yard?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Haven't found the body yet. They're not very hopeful at this point." John nodded and hummed, his heart clenching the words right out of his throat. "And John…I've been suspended. Pending investigation. I thought you should know….but I've forwarded your number to a few of the guys on the team and….well, since it'll be tough to get you updates for a while."

"I'm sorry, Greg." John closed his eyes. Somehow his heart sank even further.

"Yeah, well I'll deal with it. You just try and hang on, alright? I'll give you a call later."

They said their goodbyes and John laid his head on the table, cup of tea warming one hand, just trying not to let everything in the world overtake him again.

A heartbeat or two later, John's mobile rang once more. The Caller ID came up Unknown. A familiar voice came through the phone once John answered, although not as smooth and impassive as it had always previously been. "John Watson. Do you have a moment? I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Mycroft." John sat straight up, instantly at attention. "Yeah, no, what's happened?" His heart and mind warred with one another while John waited breathlessly for the pleasantries to end, wondering if Sherlock's brother had something important to tell him or whether he was just checking in on John. He vaguely wondered if this would happen to him every time Mycroft called.

"Nothing as of yet. I've had a chance to go through the files Sherlock left me." A slight, almost imperceptible hitch in the way Mycroft said his brother's name was the only sign of distress. "I was hoping you'd agree to a meeting over lunch. Informal, just the two of us. I haven't decided on a course of action yet."

"Yes, of course." John's breath came out shaky. "Where do you want to meet?" John was already rising and dumping his tea in the sink. He didn't want to look himself in the mirror but he did anyway. He didn't much recognize the man who stared back at him, but he supposed that to people who didn't know him, he would seem normal enough.

"I'll send a car for you. We need someplace discreet to discuss this, most especially if I'm to be showing you the files he left. You have a few minutes to get ready." The call ended abruptly, as usual. For someone who put so much time and effort into social protocol, Mycroft was less than skilled at ending informal conversations.

John pocketed the phone and went to wash his face before he did something like tear up again. The cold water against his skin was minimally refreshing. He brushed his hair down with his fingers and decided that that would have to do. He found his coat and gloves and waited, feeling strangely untouchable to the elements. He felt like he could have walked outside in his underwear and it wouldn't have made a damn difference to the cold inside of him.

A nondescript black car pulled up to the kurb ten minutes after Mycroft hung up. For all the John could tell, it could have been the same car that had "kidnapped" him the night he first began working with Sherlock, whisking him away to a warehouse to be intimidated and tested by an overprotective elder brother. This time, however, the back seat was empty. Tinted windows prevented John from glimpsing the driver. The car waited just long enough for John to get inside before pulling back onto the road.

He stared out the window, watching the people they passed. They were all a blur. The streets were a blur. Places he recognized and yet couldn't be bothered to notice even in an attempt to remember where they were going. John huddled in on himself and wondered if he would ever feel anything but pain and worry again, worry that what Mycroft would tell him would be what he didn't want to hear and couldn't change. 

At some point the light in the back seat dimmed; the car had pulled off the road and gone into a building. The starkness of the walls was familiar in a general sort of way, the same cold efficiency that government buildings all tended to have, whether they were built for the military or another purpose. The car pulled to a stop beside a door. The assistant John had seen before was waiting for him. She smiled briefly, barely taking her eyes off her Blackberry for a moment. "Follow me, please."

This time, John didn't feel much like joking about how she avoided running into the walls. He didn't feel much like talking at all, so he simply followed her lead. They had gone somewhere underground, a basement car park perhaps. John hadn't rally paid attention to what part of London he was in.

The nameless assistant led him through one door way, then another, and suddenly John found himself in the middle of a posh gentleman's club. The door clicked shut behind them and became invisible, merging seamlessly with the rich wood paneling and hiding the grey concrete hallway from view. The two old men in the room didn't bother to look up, noses buried in their newspapers as they lounged in leather armchairs. The woman held her index finger to her lips and led John onward.

They passed a few more rooms, each similar to the one they'd first entered, then climbed a wide staircase to the next floor up. The assistant opened a door on her left onto a room that appeared to be a combination of a dining room and a private study. Mycroft was seated at the table, typing away at a laptop. A small silver tray rested in the middle of the table, bearing sandwiches, tea, and a decanter of ice water.

John stood, not exactly sure what to do. Though he realized it was probably alright to talk again, he found he didn't know what to say. They had left on good terms, a tentative understanding forging between them, but it hadn't filled the rift Sherlock left. In the end, he started with "Hello."

Grey eyes flicked up to regard him, one of the few physical traits the brothers had shared. "Hello, John." A quick glimpse had told Mycroft everything he needed to know; John Watson was still a wreck from the previous day. It was to be expected. They both were. "Please, have a seat. Next to me, if you don't mind - I have things to show you and I would prefer not to have to constantly turn the monitor. I had refreshments brought, in the event that either of us can stomach anything."

John had the strangest urge to laugh. It came out more like a breath of air. Mycroft was as blunt as Sherlock ever was. With that thought, all others regarding laughter died. John took the chair next to Mycroft and pulled it up to the desk. It was unusual sitting side by side when he was so accustomed to Mycroft standing like a monarch across the room or poised in a chair opposite him. The elder Holmes didn't look like he'd slept either. He was wearing the same suit he'd been in when he'd visited Baker Street the day before.

Mycroft pushed the laptop over so John could have a better view. A glance at John's face froze the older man and made him reconsider. "...my apologies. I should have asked how you were doing." Mycroft already knew, but in his haste to bring John up to speed he'd surreptitiously left some social niceties behind. Sometimes people cared more about the form and routine, the comforting rituals of words and gestures, than they did about the truth. Anyone could take a look at John's pale skin and the dark, haunted circles under his eyes and know the doctor was not well, but they would inquire after his health all the same.

"No." John shook his head. "Please don't. I'm going to be hearing that from everyone. Just…," John sighed. "Just be real with me, okay?" He glanced at Mycroft and saw understanding in the man's soft eyes. John's heart broke at their color, but he was strengthened by Mycroft's acceptance. John looked back to the screen, readying himself, unsure whether he'd find everything he already knew about the cases they'd followed recently…or more. "What did he leave you?"

"Everything within his power to leave," Mycroft replied, voice soft and clipped. A click of the mouse brought up a folder with a few files. The text document was selected and enlarged. "Sherlock found himself a true rival and got carried away by his love of the Game, as he called it. He figured out the identity of the man that was sending him challenges early on, but was so confident in his own ability to escape unscathed that he withheld all the crucial evidence from everyone else. He wasn't used to having someone play at his level and wanted to prolong the experience." Mycroft took a sip from the teacup at his side, giving John a chance to skim over the document.

"This is going to be upsetting, but I need you to stay focused. What details can you recall about the man who called himself Richard Brook?"

Any color that was left in John's face drained away. His lips parted and his eyes fixed to the screen. He became a man frozen in time. Rich's face was there, an energetic photo of him pasted in the document, smile wide and eyes bright as ever. "…Rich?" John's voice was little more than a croak. He turned to look at Mycroft, then back at the screen, but Sherlock's words there in text were beginning to spell it all out for him. Observations the detective had made, threads he'd linked together, suspicions he'd theorized over.

"The man's real name is James Moriarty. Sherlock was suspicious of him from the first meeting, when pieces of his behavior didn't match the persona he was attempting to project, but was intrigued enough by the puzzle that he consented to further meetings so he'd have the opportunity to observe him further. The masked man from the beheading video, which Sherlock and you withheld from the Met, is Moriarty." Mycroft watched John scroll down the text and stopped him at a crucial point. "He was also working with one other person - a gunman of some sort, possibly a sniper, who assisted in the officer shootings. Sherlock never saw him, so we don't have a name or a face to track down yet."

"Oh god." John swallowed, putting a hand over his mouth. Rich, _Richard Brook_ had been the man they were looking for all along. John's mind cast back to Rich in their first meeting, the nervous yet brave young man who'd dreamed of revolutionizing the televised education industry and wanted to use Sherlock's methods of learning, of investigation, to do so. He thought of Richard at the studio and how everyone there had loved him, the whole cast and crew. Most of all, he thought of Richard at Zizi that night he had run into John alone and spent the rest of it cheering him up. John had thought that night that's what real friends did for one another, not like the constant one sided relationship he and Sherlock had most of the time. Rich had been a ray of sunlight. "I can't—It can't…I had dinner with this man. Sherlock _let me_ stay out and have dinner with this man." Grotesque visions of little Rich Brook wielding a chainsaw and dancing through a murder scene made John shudder. "We got to _know_ him." John turned to Mycroft. Sherlock had never gotten to know even the most cunning killers they encountered before.

"You got to know who he was pretending to be. There's a difference, John." Mycroft was sharply aware of the divide between the two; both of the Holmes brothers had spent a great deal of time perfecting their skills of observation so as not to be trapped by lies and facades. "Moriarty only wanted Sherlock, and as long as you weren't percieved as a risk, he wasn't going to touch you. Doing so would immediately have broken the unspoken rules of the game they were playing. Moriarty knew that Sherlock had figured out his identity. Sherlock was content to keep playing so long as key lives weren't endangered, and Moriarty abided by this for as long as it took to lead Sherlock into the trap he'd devised. By the time my brother came back down to reality, he'd been thoroughly framed for murder and you were being held hostage at Scotland Yard."

Nothing more than a breath of air escaped John as he turned his eyes back to the screen, letting it sink in. Another photograph of Richard, in character as the storyteller, rested on the screen. He couldn't reconcile the two, Rich with 'Moriarty'. He stared at the man's face, trying to warp it in his mind and imagine this person doing horrible things.

" _Why?_ " John finally asked. "What could Rich…Moriarty…whoever, possibly get out of destroying Sherlock's life?"

"They'd met before, years ago, in a way. Sherlock's first experience with following a murder case and trying to solve it, for fun, happened in 1989. A boy drowned in a swimming pool under suspicious circumstances, but the death was ruled an accident. Sherlock suspected it was something more, and I agreed, but we were both too young at the time to get the police to listen. This boy might have been Moriarty's first planned kill. At the very least, he found out that Sherlock was engaged with the case and had spotted clues that the police had missed. It seems to have cemented his interest in my brother."

Mycroft sighed. "The encrypted pieces of code left at each crime scene combined to unlock a video file that Moriarty hid on the audition DVD he gave you both. It's a confession, of sorts, that his obsession with Sherlock started when they were both children. He'd been stalking my brother for years."

John felt like the world was being pulled out from under his feet. He turned wide eyes to Mycroft again, just to find an anchor in another person who knew Sherlock, had known Sherlock for quite a lot longer than he had, actually. Much of what he felt was reflected in Mycroft's expression. How had they never noticed this before? How had _Sherlock_ not seen it? Or Mycroft, with his eyes in every room in the United Kingdom? John realized he wasn't breathing properly.

"Can I see it?"

"It's not an easy thing to watch," Mycroft warned, watching John with sympathetic eyes. "Breathe first." He stood and reached for the tray in the center of the table, pouring John a glass of water while he waited for the man to compose himself. He placed the tumbler in John's fingers and resettled himself in his chair. The doctor looked grim, but ready as he'd ever be. Mycroft brought up the video file and pressed play.

A large pool came into focus, grainy and monochrome in an attempt to mimic old film. Jake appeared, dressed as Sherlock, only to be confronted by a predatory, slick Moriarty. The narration began in Richard Brook's cheerful falsetto, outlining the sequence of events in the distant past. The Moriarty on screen drew closer and closer, pulling young Sherlock in with effortless magnetism until the youth smirked and declared the criminal caught.

The scene switched, changing to a darker, smaller room. Moriarty and the youth playing Sherlock were uncomfortably close. The criminal's hands ghosted over the boy's face, tender and worshipful, and young Sherlock's coat and scarf were discarded on the floor. "Who are you?" the boy whispered.

"I'm your villain, darling," Moriarty replied, leaning down to whisper the words against the boy's mouth. The video faded to black.

John was trembling. His heart was racing, but he'd still gone white as a sheet. With shaking hands he put the glass back down on the desk and covered his mouth. " _Oh my god,_ " his voice came or muffled behind his hand. Mycroft had warned him, and Mycroft had told him that was in fact Richard, but something in John was still deeply disturbed. His narration had been bad enough, confirming their suspicions, but the boy…the boy dressed as Sherlock, the way they had looked together, that sealed it. The sweet Rich Brook from his memory crumbled. "I know that boy," John breathed. "He was at the studio. He was going to play Sherlock."

"Such was the depth of his obsession that he went to far as to find a look-alike until he had a chance to interact with Sherlock in earnest. I doubt the boy knew what was really going on, but I'm going to be investigating anyway. Even if the child wasn't directly involved, interacting with murderers at that age can leave a mark." Mycroft knew as much from experience. He glanced at John's trembling form beside him and wondered if he shouldn't have offered the poor man something more potent than water. "John. Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah," John swallowed. The trembling didn't stop, but the horror was slowly coiling tight enough in his stomach to branch into anger. "I'm fine. But someone needs to make sure this kid is alright." He looked at Mycroft with determination, feeling for the first time since Sherlock….well, feeling purpose again, motivation to protect a human life. It didn't even cross his mind that they boy had possibly known what Moriarty was doing. 

Mycroft returned his gaze, smouldering rage showing through his air of concern for the first time. "Someone will. And I'm going to find James Moriarty and make him lament the fact that he was ever born," he grated. Mycroft's throat closed up as emotion overwhelmed him and he swallowed, leaning back in his chair. Perhaps they both needed a drink.

John sat back, a little relieved, a little nervous. Mycroft had looked downright frightening for a moment there. John had never seen him like that before. He had to count himself somewhat mad because he agreed. He wanted Mycroft to find Moriarty, and he wanted Moriarty to _hurt_. And he'd never wanted to hear himself say that. Killing to survive, killing to save a life, killing to prevent harm was different than killing for revenge. John put his head in his hands. He took a breath before he looked back up at Mycroft, knowing he was breaking something deep in his core when he nodded.

Mycroft looked old, ancient before his time. The lion's share of life's burdens had always fallen to him, and he'd taken them willingly in order to shield Sherlock and give him space to grow. It hadn't always worked out the way he wished it to, but Sherlock had been spared a number of pains. 

It was a terrible irony that, for as much power and control as he wielded, always watching for outside dangers, Sherlock had been his own downfall, as he had almost been once before. Mycroft could protect Sherlock from anyone but himself.

"I've started searching for anyone who matches James Moriarty's facial structure and build, but my guess is he's left the country by now. It's going to take time to track him down." And he would be found - failure was not an option. "We're going to have to be patient."

John just felt sick. He almost had the urge to say thank you, for showing him this, for taking the time to be there for John, for…for going after Moriarty, but that would have been ridiculous. Mycroft wasn't doing this for John. He was hurting just as much as John was and he was doing this for himself. John nodded, finally taking a sip of water. "What do we do now?" he sighed. The question was somewhat rhetorical. The rest of their lives loomed over them like sentences to be served.

"We wait for my network to do its work," Mycroft responded, sounding just as unsatisfied by the answer as John felt. "I'll find him, but if he stayed undetected for this long, it's unlikely he'll be careless now. Even with his goal accomplished and his focus gone." Killed in such a stupid way, a fan destroying the object of his obsession in a misguided sense of worship. "Lestrade needs to be informed, as well. And yes, I know he's been suspended for the moment," he added. "The Met's resources wouldn't help in the search anyway. He simply deserves to know."

John nodded. He felt very strange about the whole thing, like he wanted to be alone but also desperately needed to be around someone just to distract him…even though it wasn't working. "Would you like me to do it or…do you want to bring him here? "

"He should probably hear it from me. He'll want to ask questions, and you won't have the answers to give him." Mycroft leaned back, hands laced together and white-knuckled in his lap as he regarded John in silence. Both of them were stretched to the breaking point - everything was too soon and too raw. "I have that stronger drink, if you want it."

John sank in his chair and heaved a sigh. "Absolutely." He was aware that it was only early afternoon, and even that just barely. John did not care. He knew the drink wouldn't stop his thoughts or still his tumultuous emotions, but he was willing to give it a shot anyway. 

Mycroft nodded and rose, retrieving his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialing as he walked. One of the room's cabinets revealed a small stock of liquor and glassware, along with a small wooden tobacco box. Mycroft selected a bottle and a couple of glasses. "Detective Inspector. I'm sorry to interrupt. I have a few things to discuss with you. Are you available? ...yes. Yes, I'm aware. It doesn't matter. ...don't worry about transport, I'll have you picked up. John is already here. ...I'll see you shortly, Detective Inspector."

The call ended with the flick of a finger. Mycroft returned to his seat with a bottle of scotch, pouring a measure into two glasses.

"Was that you being nice, or does he not know yet that you know he's been suspended?" John asked as he took his glass. He swirled it once, staring at the color. It had been years since he'd drunk scotch. He took a gulp and felt it burn like pearls down his throat. The last time sure hadn't been with scotch as smooth as this. He licked his lips.

"He knows I know now. He's embarrassed and angry, but the suspension won't matter in the long run. It will get cleared up. Lestrade wasn't at fault for what happened. Even if he'd pushed Sherlock harder for answers, my brother wouldn't have complied." Mycroft sipped at his own glass and nursed it in his palm, wondering just how far he'd slipped in his grief that he was permitting himself to drink with another person. Even if that person had been Sherlock's most trusted companion.

John was none the wiser to Mycroft's compulsions. He tried to imagine Lestrade seeing what he'd just seen and not being able to take it to the Met due to his suspension. Mycroft said this wasn't a matter the police would able to investigate, but it was going to drive them all crazy sitting here. And yet…even if Moriarty was caught and killed tomorrow, they weren't going to get Sherlock back.

"There's nothing he can do, is there?" John asked. "He's been fighting the others at the Yard to clear Sherlock's name….even with this," he gestured to the screen, "it's not going to help, is it? Not until we prove Richard wasn't real and Sherlock didn't just put it all together." It was terribly inconvenient for them that Brook's persona was a paid actor and his confession on film.

"No, there's nothing he can do yet. This isn't the sort of problem that's going to be solved overnight. Even with this dossier, we're going to need more. I'm having information collected on the Richard Brook persona to see what else can be tracked down, but the simplest solution will be to find the man himself."

John took another drink. He tried to imagine it was helping. He wondered how long it would take, or whether it could be done at all. What would a man as unstable as Moriarty have done with himself after Sherlock's death? John couldn't imagine. It was difficult to think of Richard, of Moriarty, as unstable at all, honestly. He'd been calculated in _everything_ he'd done. Rich had seemed like one of the sanest, most carefree people John had met. And Mycroft said that was all part of the facade.

It wasn't very long at all before footsteps came down the hall. The telltale clack of the nameless woman's heels and the easier, casual stride of a man stopped at the other side of the door before they paused and knocked softly.

"Come in, Detective Inspector." Mycroft straightened minutely, slipping even further into formality as Lestrade entered the room. "We've started without you, but I'd be happy to bring you up to speed with what I've been showing Doctor Watson." Mycroft gestured broadly towards the remaining chairs in invitation. He cleared his throat when Greg eyed their glasses. "There's water or scotch, if you'd care for a drink. I'm afraid the tea's gone cold."

Lestrade paused for a moment, swaying between decorum and scotch. He must have decided to sod it because finally he let out a long, exasperated sigh and said, " _Hell_ yes. Please." He raised his brows and pinched the bridge of his nose while John looked up at him with not a small amount of sympathy before he dropped into a chair next to the doctor.

"You don't look any better off than the rest of us," John said.

It was true. Lestrade's silver hair was sticking up on one side and matted on the other, like he'd tried to sleep, but judging from the circles under his eyes it hadn't worked.

Mycroft's gaze lingered for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly polite. He covered the gaffe by turning his attention to his pouring, sliding a glass in front of John to be passed along. "I doubt any of us will be getting enough rest for quite some time." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the amount Greg downed in the first swallow but decided not to comment.

Lestrade set the glass down and raked his hands over his eyes and through his hair, clearing his throat and trying to get back in business mode. When he looked up at Mycroft, it was with tired brown eyes. "So, what's the news?"

John couldn't help the guilt welling in his gut, watching Lestrade's profile. Essentially, the man had been sacked for working with him and Sherlock. As if John didn't have enough to feel bad about already. That was going to be an uncomfortable conversation to come.

"We have the real name and face of the one ultimately responsible for the string of murders, the incident at Scotland Yard, and Sherlock's death. Doctor Watson met him on more than one occasion. You ran into him precisely once - he was using the alias of Richard Brook and posing as an actor who was involved in a project based on Sherlock's work. His real name is James Moriarty."

Mycroft tapped on the laptop, bringing Sherlock's typed notes back onscreen. "I've decrypted all of the files Sherlock left me, which is a start, but not enough to clear his name or yours, much less ensure that justice is served. I'm aware that you've been suspended, but that won't matter for what I have planned."

Lestrade looked stunned. His eyes went comically wide, but the rest of him was struck motionless. He opened his mouth, but only after a long moment did he speak. "Are you serious… _one man_? Richard Brook?" He turned to look at John incredulously. "That guy from the _kids television station_?"

John pulled a grimace. "I didn't know until just now either."

Lestrade turned back to Mycroft. "'What do you have planned?' We need to get whatever Sherlock gave you to the Met. They're running in circles over there."

"Moriarty orchestrated everything, but there's no possible way that he carried out all of the necessary steps on his own. We don't know if he had partners or was part of a network. Or both," Mycroft added, sipping thoughtfully at his scotch. "I'll be submitting the evidence Sherlock gave me so the Met can at least start to look in the right places for evidence, but I doubt they're going to find much. This was cleverly planned over a long period of time; Moriarty would have known better than to leave concrete evidence behind."

"I've started a search through my international contacts as well as with my domestic network. I'm going to find where he's gone, secure him, and bring him back. Given that both of you had a demonstrably close relationship with my brother, I'd like to offer you a chance to assist once Moriarty's been located."

Lestrade glanced at John and their eyes met. "Let's get the bastard," the former detective said, turning back to Mycroft. His voice was hard, and there was nothing but cold determination in his gaze. He was all in.

John sighed heavily at his side. He had reservations, but this was the man who had killed his best friend. His only friend, really. John swallowed and nodded to Mycroft. "What can we do?"

"Nothing until I find him. As I told you, I'm predicting that he'll have left the country now that his objective is complete. It's a matter of figuring out where, which will take time. After he's located, things will get more complicated." Mycroft took another drink of scotch, weighing his words carefully. "None of this is, technically speaking, official. I'm pulling in personal favors from among my contacts. Once we're sure that we've spotted Moriarty, we'll have to plan reconnaissance and capture. The amount of assistance we can count on will depend on where he's found. We can hire additional personnel, but you can only trust mercenaries so far. I wouldn't put it past Moriarty to have contacts in those circles, so I'd prefer to rely mostly on people I know are trustworthy."

John listened while the sickness in his gut spread up his throat. He wasn't sure he ever wanted to see Moriarty again. Inside him a war was being wrought between that desire and his hatred of the shadow that had taken Sherlock from him.

Lestrade caught on quickly, eyes narrowing in on Mycroft. "You're going after him personally? All this is off the books."

"The Met isn't going to find him, and no government or international police force is going to be interested in pursuing this without enough tangible proof to merit the expense, diplomatic fallout, and media circus." Mycroft set down his glass and met Lestrade's gaze. "Like Doctor Watson, I have very little holding my life together after this. My brother was the only remaining member of the family that merits being considered as such. Moriarty made this personal, and I do not intend to let this go. No matter how long it takes, or what the cost might be."

A sombre note passed between them and Lestrade nodded slowly. He looked at John, almost as if to comfort him in solidarity, and then back to Mycroft again. With a glance down to the table, he raised his glass. He lifted it until amber liquid was level with brown eyes. "Well," Lestrade began, "I'll drink to that. And I'll be right there with you."

He managed to pull a half smile out of John. Lestrade had genuinely liked Sherlock. He'd also been regularly irritated, flabbergasted, annoyed, embarrassed, and overall fed up with the man, but he was one of the few people who appreciated Sherlock beyond all that.

Lestrade tipped the tumbler back and downed the rest of his drink.

Mycroft nodded. Now that a pact of sorts had been formed between the three of them, the atmosphere lifted slightly. Whatever might come, they'd been thrown into this situation together and would stay together to see it through. An awkward silence descended as the three of them fidgeted with their glasses, uncertain of what to say. What was there to say, really, with all of them such strangers, united by a common point of grief?

"From business to bereavement support," Mycroft mused. "There's not much else to be done in the meantime. You both are acquainted, at least."

"Have you ever….met?" Joh asked awkwardly, suddenly thrown. He hadn't realized. Mycroft spoke as if he knew Lestrade. Lestrade didn't seem confused over who Mycroft was, not like John had the first time he'd been whisked away by Sherlock's "arch nemesis" of a brother. He'd sort of assumed Lestrade had gotten the same treatment somewhere along the line.

Lestrade huffed a laugh. "Sort of, not really.... Had to stop him from diving right off the pier."

Mycroft shot John a hint of a smile. "No, he didn't get subjected to a kidnapping and interrogation. I was looking for somewhere safe to place Sherlock to keep him occupied and out of trouble, after he got clean, and thus I had ample time to investigate all the options. I determined Detective Inspector Lestrade was the best man for the job, and I wasn't wrong, but he simply knew me as an anonymous voice over the phone."

Lestrade snorted, waving off the praise. He could have reminded them all just how well he'd done in the end, keeping track of Sherlock, but that would have not only killed the mood, it would have locked it in a box and sent it to the bottom of the ocean.

"And _I_ get interrogated? What's that all about?" John at least seemed to be trying to go for humor, which was a shock in itself. It was a bit forced, on the edge of hysterical, but at least it was a try.

Mycroft laced his fingers and tilted his head to peer down at John. "You really have to ask? A skilled field doctor who was notorious for being a crack shot, suddenly turning up on my brother's doorstep with psychosomatic symptoms and trembling hands? I had no way of knowing what you might do to my brother, whether you planned it from the beginning or he simply drove you to madness. Giving you a Men In Black test was really quite harmless."

John closed his mouth. "Wha-? I…." He went a bit red.

That got a chuckle out of the detective. "We were all surprised he didn't push you over the edge, actually," Lestrade said with an air of bewilderment. "Don't know how you managed."

John shook his head at the both of them, but he couldn't help a smile. "Just fine. I managed just fine."

"That just proves that you were already mad," Mycroft pointed out. "But harmless enough." It was patently bizarre; Mycroft was obviously teasing John, but you'd never have known it from the man's expression or tone. He was as calm and cultured as he always was, completely neutral. "I'm surprised you even attempted to cook in the same kitchen Sherlock used for experiments."

"A person could get used to pickled thumb stew, you know," John gave another begrudging smile. It may have been a testament to how used to Sherlock he'd become that he understood Mycroft's humor. The elder Holmes was all smooth where Sherlock had been deadpan, but the similarity was there.

"Better than a microwave dinner, I'd imagine," Lestrade offered. "I should have you over."

"I was unaware that you were a chef in your spare time, Detective Inspector. Hopefully nothing too adventurous - I don't think Doctor Watson should be encouraged too far down the path Sherlock started him on. Even if you accompany dinner with a nice chianti." When John turned to look at him, Mycroft shrugged. "I'm not completely oblivious to cultural references."

Lestrade buried his face in his hand, snorting.

"You'd have your brother beat, then," Joh began, and his smile wavered. Sherlock had been the oblivious one in that area. Had been.

Lestrade, sensing the change in the air, piped up while John drank the rest of his scotch. "We should take him up on the chianti at least," he said, leaning toward John. "Probably won't find finer liquor anywhere."

"Do I detect an attempt at flattery, with an aim to get into my private stock?" Mycroft arched an eyebrow at Lestrade, a flicker of a smile pulling at his lips. "The most effective technique is to build off truths, so you're off to a good start. I have particular tastes." Mycroft raised his glass, considering the remains of the amber liquid within. "The more pressing question is, what do I get in trade, aside from an enjoyable evening in the company of two fine gentlemen?"

"Well…he's got the thumb stew and I'm offering microwave dinners and probably a lot of newfound time on my hands…. What an attractive lot we all are." Lestrade said with an optimistic half smile.

John rubbed his temples, still trying to shake himself out of a funk that would probably never leave. "What are you on about, Mycroft? We're not going to go raiding through your liquor cabinets."

"Speak for yourself!" Lestrade cut in.

"I'd like to see you try to get past my security," Mycroft mused, a real smile finally sliding into place. It was smaller, quieter than the ones John had seen before - bookish and shy instead of a politician's strained smirk. "That would take care of the evening's entertainment. I suspect that it wouldn't be as enjoyable on your end, however."

John eyed Lestrade through his fingers. "You leave me out of this."

The detective rubbed his hands together, patently ignoring John's protest. "Well then we'll just have to go about it the old fashioned way. Strike up a rapport. We take him out, he takes us out…what do you say?"

Lestrade was looking at John with hopeful brown eyes. He knew very well how much John didn't want to go 'out', that he would like nothing better than to crawl into a hole and never climb up, and he had to have some sense that Mycroft was feeling similarly. But the suggestion was all for them.

Mycroft froze, smile disappearing to be replaced with a slight frown. His gaze slid from John to Greg, analyzing their body language and comparing them to Greg's words. Lestrade seemed sincere and, moreover, still teasing. There was no layered meaning, merely a good-natured intention to drag them all out somewhere where grief would be dulled and suppressed by social mores and distractions. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

Lestrade blinked. He'd noticed Mycroft's sudden change in demeanor. "Well, I don't know…." he shrugged openly, "I know a decent couple of pubs around Regent Street. May not be up to your usual standard, but it'd at least be something to do every now and again."

John could tell Lestrade was grasping at straws with this one. They'd been teasing, yes, but he was asking Mycroft, of all people, out to the pub. Probably to drown their sorrows with the former detective. It was a nice offer, but he didn't even want to leave the flat. The only reason John came here at all was on account of Mycroft's insistence. "I don't know…" he began to shake his head.

Mycroft's grey eyes darted to John, taking in the defeated slump to the doctor's shoulders and the lines in his face. Mycroft straightened his spine; there was nothing more to decide. "John." Mycroft's voice was soft with sympathy, and he cursed the way John's expression pulled at him when the man finally looked up. John had shifted somewhere along the line from almost-family to adopted kin. Mycroft had spent so many years in the role of caretaker and guardian that it was second nature by now - John was family, and so John's well-being was his burden to bear. "It will do you good. Come out with us. Please."

Lestrade broke into a grin, one meant more for John than anything.

John looked between them both, feeling unexpectedly outnumbered and knowing in the back of his mind that this was probably a good thing. With a heavy sigh, he sat back in his chair and conceded defeat. "Alright…. But the tab's on you," he added, just for spite. And oh lord, that was another thing John didn't want to think about, how he was going to continue living in the flat with a meager income.

"Don't worry about it," Mycroft said automatically, then flinched, cursing himself internally. His shields and tongue had loosened with his own distress, apparently, leaving him rather less guarded and tactful than he would have liked. Few people cared to have their thoughts deduced and answered before they were voiced. Mycroft swallowed against the discomfort of his faux pas and adjusted his cuff link.

"Detective Inspector, you'll have to choose the location. I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of frequenting public houses."

Lestrade rattled through a few names while John sat wondering if his mind had just been read or if Mycroft had been referring to the tab.

Finally, Lestrade decided. "Three Crowns isn't that bad. Only been there once but I'd give it another go."

John nodded his assent. "Good as any." As long as it wasn't Zizi, that was fine with him. He had to wonder if he'd ever be able to walk by that place again. That night with Rich was the last good night out he'd had before everything went to hell. Honestly, it was the last good night out he'd had even before that. He really wasn't so sure the pub thing was a good idea.

"It will be fine," Mycroft commented, as much to himself as to John. He shut the laptop with a click and stowed it in a case by his side. Mycroft had no idea what would be expected for something as informal as a pub, but he would wing it. It couldn't be that different from the dinners and social events put on by various politicians and diplomats; he simply wouldn't be asked to file reports on all the attendees once the social interactions had concluded. "When did you want to go?"

"Well…seeing as how it's early afternoon, I've just been sacked, you've…probably spent all night putting this together, and John looks like he's barely slept a wink, I'd say the sooner the better," Lestrade nodded.

John groaned. He wasn't ready to start drinking. Or going out. Or _anything._ It had been one day and he was still in limbo. When Mycroft put a car in front of his flat, he climbed in. When he put a drink in John's hands, he drank. He didn't want to think about these things and he didn't want to be around people 'having a good time', but it looked like Mycroft and now Lestrade were yet again making the decisions for him.

Lestrade clapped a warm hand on John's shoulder. "We don't have to stay out long," he said, "but you shouldn't be alone right now. That goes for you, too," the detective added to Mycroft. He took a shot in the dark, guessing what was going on inside the elder Holmes, but all Lestrade had to do was remember what he'd been like at the river.

Mycroft's gaze flicked to Lestrade but he didn't bother denying the charge. Sherlock hadn't been the only one swept into an icy current, and thoughts of revenge and his tenuous duty towards John were the two things keeping him afloat. Mycroft didn't want to consider what would happen once he finally caught up to Moriarty and repaid him in spades and blood; it was an empty chasm looming in the distance that would be dealt with once he came to it.

"Some time away from the flat will do you good, John. Just for a little while." Mycroft stood and shouldered the laptop case.

Lestrade stood with him. Both pairs of eyes watched John expectantly.

With a sigh and a very put upon mumble of agreement, John dragged himself to his feet.

"Good man," Lestrade said, a bit too cheerfully for John's liking and they headed for the door.

"Let's see if that's what you have to say when I'm wasted and…." _sobbing on the floor_ , John's mind finished for him, "…yeah."

"For an ex-military man, I'd say it would take some doing for you to drink yourself to that point," Mycroft commented, delicately avoiding any mention of John's stature and lesser body mass. "I don't think it will be a problem. If it is, the rest of us will probably be at equally dangerous levels of inebriation."

Mycroft's assistant was leaning against the wall outside the room. She took her eyes off her mobile for once, an unspoken question on her face. Mycroft shook his head and waved her off. "Follow me please." Mycroft strode off, retracing the way back down the stairs into the heart of the bizarre posh gentlemen's reading room. A wooden panel opened without any prompting that John or Lestrade could discern, the resulting doorway leading back into the stark concrete of the parking garage below.

They walked in silence, both men glancing every which way as they followed. It was difficult to tell exactly what went on in this building and neither felt bold enough to ask.

John felt somewhat better when they reached the chill of fresh air, back underground, but somehow more _real_ than Mycroft's traditional office inhabited by ghosts of men in armchairs. He breathed in a lungful of air, tainted with grease and petrol.

"If we head up Regent, we'll run into it. It's not very far," Lestrade suggested.

Several cars were parked in the underground space. A black vehicle's engine roared to life as Mycroft came into view with his guests. "It's still a ways off. My driver will take us there." Mycroft opened the door to the backseat, waiting politely for John and Lestrade to enter and take a seat before he got in himself. Both men looked a mix of curious and uneasy, and Mycroft shot them a bemused smile. "Private drivers are not that unusual when you work in government, I assure you."

The car started to move. Mycroft rapped on the privacy window, which slid down in response. "Detective Inspector, please tell him where you'd like to go."

"Ah… Three Crowns, corner of Regent and Piccadilly?" Lestrade leaned forward and peered through the window, trying to meet the driver's eyes. The man nodded once and the window slid up again, all formality. Lestrade gave up and sat back.

Beside him, John looked bemusedly at his two mates, sitting in the back of a sleek government car. They made for an odd trio, Mycroft poised next to Lestrade's casual slouch, and then himself, leaning against the door and probably looking half dead.

The car sped them quickly through the streets, taking a circuitous route that made it difficult to determine where they'd actually been. Whatever the odd, quiet building had been, it wasn't meant to be easily found.

Three Crowns turned out to be a neat little pub tucked into the ground floor of a multistory building. It didn't have the ramshackle, run-down look that a number of pubs sported in London, boasting crisp paint and new awnings instead of a gritty air of neglect. The driver dropped them off just outside the door, waiting only long enough for them to all get out before he pulled away from the curb.

Mycroft examined their surroundings, then turned to Greg expectantly, waiting for him to lead the way.

At least the detective was in his element here. John was out of it, and he fell into step with Mycroft right behind Lestrade. They didn't get the throng of the pub crowds, spilling out onto the street that they would later that night. Rather, it was a subdued atmosphere of lunch goers when the three of them stepped into the little pub and out of the cold. Lestrade rubbed his hands together, warming them up before he headed straight for a stool at the bar. John looked around at the quaint little place before following. He glanced back to make sure Mycroft was still with them while the detective struck up a word with the bartender.

Mycroft was very much a fish out of water, his bespoke finery setting him firmly apart from the rest of the customers. They were too far from the government sector of the city for anyone else to be dressed in anything approaching formal business wear. Still, Mycroft didn't seem bothered by how out of place he looked. He took a seat on the stool next to Lestrade and calmly began looking over the menu listing the available drinks. Every now and again he discreetly glanced around the room, cataloging their surroundings and the other customers.

Having the former detective between them was probably the best arrangement. He was easily the liveliest of the three. Already he'd ordered the first round of drinks with a plate of nachos before John could protest that they hadn't even figured out what they wanted yet. Lestrade brushed it off.

When it became clear that the three didn't really know what they were doing besides avoiding the large, missing elephant in the room, it was again Lestrade who broke the silence. "So Mycroft, where do you go out for fun?"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, gazing thoughtfully at his clasped hands while they waited for the bartender to bring their drinks. He already had little idea of what he was doing with the other two men. This wasn't a state function or a mission, where he had a solid objective and tailored his persona accordingly. He wasn't trying to charm John and Lestrade into giving up crucial information or attempting to manipulate them into particular actions - he was simply providing pleasant company. The difficulty lay in the type of company desired: he was supposed to be himself. Mycroft had little idea of how to proceed with that.

"We were just there," he responded quietly.

John's brows furrowed. Lestrade blinked.

"You…work?" the detective asked.

John carefully watched Mycroft's expression. That had been one of the first things Sherlock had revealed about himself when they'd first met, he was married to his work. John had to wonder if it was a family trait. In that moment, he gained a bit of John's sympathy by proxy. And at least Sherlock had John. For a while.

"Sometimes. That isn't normally where I work." Mycroft's features were carefully neutral, even though it was plain that his companions were already finding him strange. "I go there to read and think, uninterrupted, in the company of others who want the same."

And now they were gaping. A flush of colour touched Mycroft's cheeks and his spine straightened. The bartender delivered their pints and Mycroft drank to cover his embarrassment at the awkward moment.

That still counted as more social than Sherlock ever was, John thought with a barb in his chest. Lestrade realized he was staring and took a long pull of his beer, even with brows comically raised. "Never could get him to come out to pubs either," John said quietly. They didn't need to ask to whom he was referring. Perhaps he was trying to relieve Mycroft's awkwardness. Perhaps John was giving in to the inevitable. One way or another, they were going to end up talking about Sherlock.

Mycroft nodded, setting down his glass. The beer was... adequate. "It's noisy, a lot of things to process." That seemed to snag John's attention, so he elaborated. "You're surrounded by people, taking in all of their details, and having to contend with hearing several conversations going on in the background besides the one you're supposed to pay attention to. It can get very wearing, particularly when so much of it ends up being the equivalent of white noise. He didn't have much patience for dealing with it."

"So…that's why there's no talking allowed in that room, the one we passed?" John asked, taking a sip and trying not to remember the way Sherlock's eyes slanted differently than Mycroft's. "There were a lot of people in there. They're all like that?" Lestrade crunched a nacho loudly. John assumed the detective wouldn't have faired very well in that sort of company.

"Yes. Understand, everyone who goes there does a great deal of talking during their normal work hours. They want somewhere to decompress, but don't want solitude. It's an effective compromise." Mycroft didn't care for the way he had to lean closer to Lestrade in order for John to hear him through the pub's ambient noise. Things were awkward enough without that added stressor.

The detective didn't seem to notice. He didn't even make room, just listened attentively glancing back and forth between them. He shrugged. "I guess I could imagine that…. Used to go out with the guys at the Yard, but they're a crowd who're even _more_ chatty on the off hours."

"But that's not really like…talking to anyone, is it?" John asked. "When you're talking all day, I mean, but that's when you're working, and then being alone with other people around you…also being alone." It was a fairly forward question. Perhaps John's mood and him already being down half a beer had prompted its asking. 

Mycroft leaned back, eyes unfocused for a moment. He tried to think of a simple analogy that John would understand. "Everyone in this room is like a large television, all showing different things and tuned to different volume levels, with multiple audio tracks playing on each set. You can't mute them, and it's difficult to block out the sight and sound. All of them are engaging you to some degree or another, but in an impersonal way - a one-sided conversation. You see so many details compressed into small things, telling stories in different timelines - some of it is who they are, some of it happened months ago, some this morning, and in the meantime that person is engaging in a discussion with another person who's equally layered."

Mycroft took another sip of his beer. "Now imagine holding a conversation on the phone in the middle of all of that, without losing your train of thought and confusing the person you're actually talking to."

That is what it must have been like for Sherlock. John couldn't help but think back to him, lying curled up on the couch in a mess of black hair and robe with his hands rubbing at his temples, cursing everything that made a sound. How it had annoyed John then. He was only breathing. He was only trying to write. And how it pained him now to think about. Sherlock had explained it to him less precisely in the past. It reminded him of an old telly programme when Clark Kent's super hearing would become overwhelming, debilitating the hero.

John managed an upturn of his lips. "That makes you Superman, you know."

"Not really. A large portion of it is teachable. I..." A pained look crossed Mycroft's face and he looked down, watching the beads of condensation slide along the side of his glass. "We used to practice together." And that sparked too many memories of time spent together, years ago, observing and comparing deductions for everything they could manage to spot. It twisted a knife somewhere deep, replaying the memory of a youthful Sherlock grinning in triumph and knowing he'd never see that face again.

John saw that look and he wanted to leave. He wanted to be done with this night and go home and pass out, sleep so he wouldn't have to look at Mycroft and know that the only thing that could break his facade was the very same thing that was breaking John. He was falling apart inside and he didn't know how his face remained dry.

Lestrade tapped Mycroft's menu. "Time for another round. Order something you want." They were only half finished with the beer he'd started them on.

God, John thought, the detective was out to get them plastered by late afternoon.

Mycroft pondered for a minute. He was having trouble thinking, one of the many unpleasant side effects of extreme emotional distress. His control was slipping. Upon a moment's reflection of the possible outcomes should it shatter completely, Mycroft decided that it couldn't get much worse. Embarrassment was possible, but it wasn't likely to have an effect on his work or put him into danger. His security team would see to that.

"Rusty nails," he finally said. The barkeep nodded and began mixing the cocktails before anyone had a chance to protest.

Lestrade's brows rose, but he turned an expectant look to John next. John opened his mouth to say something. He was fine with beer. He would get there eventually on that alone. But then he looked at Mycroft and felt his stomach twist in a pain that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with what he'd lost, and the idea didn't seem so bad.

"Make that two," John said to the bartender and didn't complain when Lestrade neglected to order himself a third. Someone had to take care of them. 

Mycroft smiled dryly. John had decided they were in this together, whatever the relationship between them actually was. Adopted brother/child, perhaps, replacing the one he'd lost through his inattentiveness.

The barkeep set their glasses down in front of them, and Mycroft turned to John. "Your best memory," he prompted, knowing John would pick up on what he meant. Doctor Watson had been a military man, after all, and seen the ravages of combat. He'd recognize the familiar ritual of soldiers toasting their fallen comrades with the best stories they could recall.

John picked up his glass. The sun from the window behind them set it alight with prism fragments. One thing came to mind right away, and he'd never thought of it that way before. Not until now. His best memory.

"One of our first cases. I uhm," he stopped with a laugh because it was going to sound ridiculous. Ridiculous to anyone but him. "I didn't think I'd get to go with him after the Pink case. Just thought he worked alone. He'd gone off on another one, doing who knows what, and then I got a text from him. He said he had great news and that I should meet him under the Pagoda in Chinatown," a broken smile pulled at the corners of John's mouth. "I took the tube and then walked and found him just sitting there, waiting for me, and I hadn't a clue what a pagoda was until I saw him sitting under it. And then he stood up and said he'd solved the case and…he was so proud," John laughed, "that he picked me up, literally picked me up off the ground, and spun me around until I was dizzy." The tears were coming now, falling from his eyes like they were leaking. "He spent the whole night walking me through what he'd done to solve it, step by step through the city until we wound up at some diner over coffee at three in the morning. And it was bloody fantastic. I…that might have been when I realized he didn't mind me coming along." John tried to smile. When it didn't work, he took a gulp of Rusty Nails and screwed his face up.

Mycroft smiled into his glass. It was beautiful, it was so very Sherlock, and the authenticity of it hurt him to the core. He took a sip of his drink and gave himself some time for his throat to open back up, enough so that he could speak.

"Sherlock liked experimenting early on, especially with chemicals. I took him to get whatever books he wanted, but one day that wasn't enough. He'd gathered up a number of substances around the house and, while I was distracted, started combining things in the kitchen to verify what would happen. He was only about nine at the time, so he was up on a stool, tall enough to reach the burners but not high enough to really see what he was doing, not enough arm strength to control how much he was combining together."

"I remember this... terrible sound, like all the air left the house like a gunshot. When I got downstairs to the kitchen, there was a large hole burned in the ceiling, the stovetop and part of the counter and cabinetry were ruined, and Sherlock's eyebrows were gone. Completely singed off, the rest of his hair frizzed back like a cartoon of a mad scientist. I ended up taking the blame for it, telling our mother it was a cooking accident, since she was more lenient with me. I still got grounded. Sherlock ended up sneaking into my room after dinner every night to keep me company. And," Mycroft laughed, remembering the humor with a tinge of bitterness. "I ended up drawing new eyebrows on him every day, because he couldn't do it himself, only I drew them wrong on purpose. A different way, each day. He threw a fit about it, but left it that way all day and still came back every night."

In spite of himself, and maybe a little too hysterically, John burst out laughing. Lestrade as well, and he rubbed a hand over his temple as though imagining exactly what Sherlock must have gone through.

The detective was about to remind them of the time Sally Donovan had accused Sherlock of being a salmon smuggling murderer when they'd caught him wading through open boxes of the stinking fish and on the hunt for the real killer, when he realized just how loaded a memory that was. Instead, he raised his glass for a toast. "Here's to Sherlock Holmes," he said. "a bastard, and a friend."

Mycroft raised his glass along with John. The expressions of all three looked torn as the glasses clattered together, putting forth brave faces even though the wounds were too fresh. John was still laughing in fits as he drank to the toast, but Mycroft's expression had fallen again. He could feel the old blankness pulling at him, trying to shut everything down into catatonia so he'd have a brief respite. His gaze wandered as he tried to find something to fixate on, something to help push that dangerous reflex away.

Lestrade leaned over to pour himself another glass from the pitcher. While he was at it, he refilled Mycroft's which gave him two drinks to contend with. The detective rested his chin on his palm and raised his glass to catch Mycroft's attention before he took another drink. Lestrade was surprisingly decent at taking care of them. On the other hand, not normally was Mycroft so easily read.

Mycroft was not used to being taken care of. Meeting Lestrade's gaze only aggravated several levels of discomfort, filling him with impulses that were not to be indulged. He didn't know the DI well enough, despite his levels of trust in the man. Mycroft was so used to keeping to himself that he wasn't certain he even knew how to unpack his distress, even if he cared to. His brief conversation with John was the closest he'd gotten.

Mycroft's gaze slid from Lestrade's countenance to the glass of amber liquid in his hand. Everything shut down and froze over, leaving a hollow space behind. This, at least, was familiar, though Mycroft would pay for it later when the walls came down.

"You are either the worst enabler I've ever met," John said regarding Lestrade's obvious intentions to get them drunk, "or the best." He took another large swallow anyway.

"Nah, I've got nothing on Sherlock and you know it," the detective countered.

"Point," John conceded.

They went on drinking like that. Their bits and pieces of conversation abruptly cut off by sudden plagues of memory, devolving into silences that were broken after a few minutes by someone's renewed attempt at saving the mood.

The snippets of conversation were begun only by John or Greg; Mycroft had gone eerily quiet. Even his responses, when prompted with a question, reminded one of an automaton. The only remaining sign of the man's distress was a slight trembling to his hands that grew more noticeable as the three got further along into their chain of drinks.

Outwardly, John was faring the worst in that area, drinking too fast and too much once he'd let himself go. The world would have been spinning in a minute if Lestrade hadn't slowed him down to just beer, and even then he could feel it coming. At some point, John began talking, but what he was saying only came out in pieces. He leaned over the bar, so far into Lestrade's space that he was almost within Mycroft's. "Before you even ask," as though they were going to ask, "I'm not going back to Ella," he said, "I can't deal with therapy. And I'm not leaving the flat. And…" It may have been that the thoughts had only been half formed in his mind in the first place, and hindered further by his state of grief. "Don't anyone get the bright idea of calling my family, not even my sister." John cut himself off before he added, to justify his statements, "Mrs. Hudson needs to keep at least one tenant."

"No, we're not going to call your family. You don't need to deal with the stress caused from estrangement on top of the rest, especially if your sister has gone back to her old habits," Mycroft commented. He noted with interest that the glasses in front of him were rather more shockingly empty than he'd realized. Mycroft wondered when he'd passed into a level of intoxication deep enough to affect his perception. He blinked and set his empty beer glass down. "Besides, you're family now."

John himself wasn't sure where his defensiveness was coming from. He was just suddenly worried that someone was going to try to change his life now, thinking they knew what was best for him. Perhaps because Mycroft had done so with Sherlock, and John didn't know Lestrade that well outside of work. But, the moment those words left Mycroft, John stopped speaking. Even Lestrade turned to look at the elder Holmes.

Mycroft wasn't looking at either of them. He seemed to be lost in the array of empty glasses they'd accumulated.

"…what?" John asked. 

Mycroft briefly considered touching the glasses in front of him, just for the pleasure of watching them catch the light and shatter climactically on the floor. It'd mirror his current state of mind, perhaps be soothing in a way, but probably wouldn't be worth the attention it'd draw, nor the ire of the bartender. He sighed.

"I thought I'd told you before. You're the only person left that I would remotely consider family, with the usual positive connotations associated with the word. For all intents and purposes you're my brother-in-law, even if legality has no bearing in the reality of the relationship. Do try to keep up." It was the most Sherlockian thing Mycroft had ever said, almost enough to summon the shade of his brother.

John froze. His eyes went wide and his heart dropped somewhere into the pit of his stomach. He felt like somehow, from beyond their pane of reality, Sherlock had just spoke to him and he couldn't shake that feeling. It was Mycroft. He knew it was Mycroft. With a not so difficult stretch of the imagination, he even knew why Mycroft might feel this way about him, but there it was now. Brother-in-law. Words said out in the open which everyone had failed to say in any seriousness when Sherlock was…before.

Before, John would have said that it 'wasn't like that', but besides concerning only his relation to Mycroft, he found that, when he reached down deep inside and thought of Sherlock…his friend, his partner, his sometimes ethereally beautiful flatmate, he couldn't say otherwise. He let out a shaky breath and met Mycroft's gaze. Mycroft, who was so like Sherlock and so very unlike him, too. The tears were coming again, streaming down John's face without his consent.

"Thank you."

"You shouldn't need to thank me. This is my fault," Mycroft said bitterly. He couldn't look at John anymore, not right now. Seeing the doctor's tears only made it that much more likely that he'd break down as well. Mycroft found himself focusing on Lestrade's hands instead. "I wasn't paying close enough attention. I let it happen. The least that I can do is ensure that you have what you need and watch out for you."

"This wasn't your fault," Lestrade cut in before anyone else got the chance to speak. "This wasn't anyone's fault but the bastard who did this to Sherlock." He said it with such conviction. He said it like someone who stood witness to death every day and had to console the families it left behind. But although the words were true, they didn't lessen the guilt for Mycroft nor the pain for John.

John found that he couldn't handle it any longer. He could barely believe that Sherlock was gone. It kept hitting him over and over again every time they mentioned it. He stood, wobbling against the bar stool. "I think I should go home."

Mycroft didn't bother correcting Lestrade; he felt that he'd failed at his most critical duty, and a simple consolation wasn't going the change the fact. He'd carry the guilt with him for the rest of his life.

"Is it safe for you to go home?" Mycroft asked. He was all too aware of the extreme actions pain could drive people to. "I'd prefer not to leave you alone if solitude is going to make things worse." Grey eyes settled on John's unsteady frame. "I don't want to lose anyone else," Mycroft added quietly.

Lestrade glanced worriedly from one man to the other.

John offered Mycroft a sad smile. "I'll still be here in the morning." That was the best he could promise for now, no more and no less that that. They'd left what looked like a war zone of empty glasses atop the bar. The sun, just beginning to wane in the sky, set them all alight. At one point they'd had to reassure the bartender that they did in fact have a driver taking them home, or risk being tossed out.

"You will call me tomorrow morning." Mycroft's tone brooked no argument, and he fixed John with a hawkish look, daring him to voice a complaint. "No exceptions. I expect you to check in regularly, and for you to call if you need to talk or if you're considering doing something foolish."

So this was what it was like to have been Mycroft's little brother, John thought, but he nodded and put his hand on the man's arm to pacify him. "I will," he said, and heaven knew he'd been bad at that when he'd returned from the war and Harry had asked him the same thing, but maybe he'd be better with Mycroft. John could only hope.

"And you better keep us updated on the whereabouts of this Moriarty," Lestrade added, rising from his seat. "And I want to look over a copy of what Sherlock sent you. They may have let me go, but I'm not finished doing my job just yet," he added, even if his speech was a little slurred. 

"I'll have a secure copy sent to you. Believe me, when I locate Moriarty, you two will be the first to be informed." Mycroft rose from his stool and joined them; his grief had been locked away behind grim determination. "I'll keep you both updated on any leads that I find. We will most likely need to meet on a regular basis to discuss matters once I acquire more data." Mycroft fished his mobile out of his pocket, frowning for a moment before selecting the option that would summon a driver to their location.

They paid the tab, and Lestrade began to realize that Mycroft was no less drunk than John was then, even if he was hiding it better. So, the detective walked between them, his own gait marginally more stable than theirs, as they left the pub. John leaned into his shoulder on one side, needing to be pulled back whenever he swayed off in the other direction, and Lestrade kept a close watch on the taller Holmes at his other shoulder.

Mycroft didn't seem to be having as much trouble with his balance, although he was walking far more slowly than usual, the movements fluid and relaxed instead of clipped and deliberate. They didn't have long to wait before a black car showed up for them. Mycroft stumbled slightly as he reached to open the car door, grabbing Lestrade's arm automatically to catch himself. He recovered quickly and snatched his hand back, colour suffusing his cheeks.

The detective climbed in after him, not without a hint of a smile at his lips over it, but he didn't say anything. John flopped down after the both of them and fumbled with shutting the door while his legs were getting in the way.

They took him home first, being not so very far from Baker St. While he was quiet for most of the ride, he felt like he should say something to Mycroft when they pulled up to the flat, empty but for Mrs. Hudson's lonesome light in the window. John turned to Mycroft, but found he didn't know what to say.

"We'll be in touch," Lestrade said for him, breaking the ice.

John nodded. "I'll remember to call."

Mycroft nodded, watching with more than a tinge of worry as John exited the car and slowly made his way up the stairs. His paranoia was already kicking in, making vague plans of increasing his surveillance on the flat. He knew only too well what sort of despair John must be going through.

The driver pulled away from the curb and started the journey to Lestrade's flat. Mycroft and Lestrade settled into an awkward silence.

The detective started a few conversations in his head that never made it into words. Most had something to do with what he'd seen the other man like back on the river. How different the Mycroft then was from the one who'd carefully composed himself for the majority of the afternoon. Lestrade got the impression that the glimpse of the man he'd seen that day had been a rare thing. He didn't ask how Mycroft's driver knew where he lived in the first place. It had been made clear to him that he'd been watched for some time while he'd been working with Sherlock. But, when they arrived, he found he had one last thing to say. "I hope you have someone watching out for you, too."

A ghost of a smile touched Mycroft's lips. "It's kind of you to be so concerned, but no. I'm quite accustomed to taking care of myself." Even if he'd never been put through this particular crucible before. Mycroft held Lestrade's gaze, feeling uncomfortably exposed and vulnerable. "I'll be fine."

Lestrade hesitated on opening the door. "Well…I should have some way of getting in touch with you, regardless. Do I need to find a secret phone booth and password or something?" Soft brown eyes met grey. There was genuine worry in the detective, a man who'd likely just lost his life and career concerned for the loss of another.

Mycroft weighed his options. The now-former detective was a good man, and he'd been trustworthy thus far. Mycroft relented. "Give me your phone." Their fingertips brushed as Lestrade dug his mobile out of a pocket and passed it over. Mycroft navigated the menu quickly, tapping in a new entry in the phone's contact directory under MH. "You are not to write this down or share this number. Understood?" he asked, holding out the mobile for Greg to take back.

"And if cyber terrorists hack my phone?" Mycroft did not look fazed. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Understood. I'll be in touch," he added with a grim smile and a sigh. He opened the door and climbed out, making his way up the walk to his flat with only a single glance back to the dark car before he disappeared through the door.

Mycroft rode home in silence; the driver dropped him off at his doorstep and took off as soon as he was safely through the gate an under the watchful eyes of the security staff stationed outside his home. His house had always been large and spacious, but now it also felt depressingly empty in a way not even the plethora of books could fill. It only emphasized how alone he was in the world now.

He made it all the way to the bathroom before the mental walls broke down. 

He sat on the tile floor of the shower, warm water streaming over him, and finally let his emotions claw their way out.

Mycroft purged as much of the sadness and rage as he could, pouring it out to circle down the drain with the water. It left him hollow and empty, and yet the pain still didn't recede. It simply retreated a bit, a shadow at the back of his mind that threatened to return later. Exhaustion won out and he turned off the water.

He laid awake in bed for a long time in spite of how worn he felt. His mind wouldn't shut down, replaying again and again the memory of the last text Sherlock had sent him, the last verbal conversation they'd had, the horrific moments out on the boat searching for Sherlock's body. 

Mycroft rarely felt guilt about anything, but now his heart was weighted with stones. It was hours more before he finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson came out into the hall when John arrived home. She gave him a timid hello and asked if there was anything he needed, but he turned her down and lied that he just wanted to go to bed. Sleep the evening away, he said. After her reminders that he could call on her if he needed anything, anything at all, she toddled off to her rooms again. John let her go with a well of relief in his gut. He needed to get inside and be alone.

After closing the door behind him, however, he was faced with an empty flat. 

It was a shock, like walking into another dimension, leaving the world of humans behind and stepping into a realm inhabited by…ghosts. He shuddered and tried not to notice the emptiness, and the silence. He went to the kitchen and started another pot of tea. He washed out a cup, shying away from the ones Sherlock favored, and tried not to remember the things he'd learned this afternoon.

Mycroft and Lestrade had done a good job of keeping him distracted from the gravity of Sherlock's last confession. They'd kept him focused on what it meant to all of them, and on what Richard Brook's betrayal, his hateful, deceitful plan had meant for Sherlock in the end. But now, as the water hissed and steamed while John stood over it, staring at nothing, the weight of what that confession meant to _John_ came crashing down upon his head.

Sherlock had _lied to him_. The whole time. He'd let Rich lead them on, knowing all the while who he was and John had been none the wiser.

Sherlock had gone off on his own and left John alone long before he'd died. And then he'd died, and left John for good.

John's hands clenched at the countertop. He couldn't breathe. Tears leaked from his eyes, and he sank, gasping to the floor. 

He stayed there for a long time, letting the whine of the tea kettle drown out his own breath.

Eventually, John curled up against the cupboards. 

He couldn't understand why Sherlock had done it, why he’d had left. John wanted to go to the roof and scream it all across London so that the whole world could hear. Why, after everything they'd been through, after everything Sherlock had asked of John and John had given, had he done this? 

He'd kept John at arm's length nearly always--there had been no doubt of that. But John knew better, too. He _knew better_ than to think that was all there was between them. Sherlock had played jazz for him. Sherlock had opened up to him in his few, rare moments of vulnerability. Sherlock had held him and fallen asleep with him the night he knew he was going to die, and John had clung to him, believing they could get through it.

John had never felt so blindsided in all his life. There was a gaping hole in his chest where his best friend used to be. He’d grown so used to Sherlock, so comfortable with him living there, that John taken it for granted until he was ripped out. It felt like he’d ripped John's heart out as well. 

The thought that he would never see Sherlock again was unbearable. It tore him apart inside until all he could do was lay there on the cold floor and wonder if the sheer pain in his chest was going to kill him, too. 

And wouldn't that be fitting.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft woke with a pounding headache and a sour knot in his stomach. The price of the previous day had come due, and Mycroft thought it was rather fitting to have physical pain layered over the mental. He forced himself upright and automatically reached for his mobile out of long habit. The device didn't show anything out of the ordinary - it could all wait for a short period while he became human again.

He showered and dressed mechanically, using the time to plan all the things that would have to be taken care of later that day. There were arrangements to make for the funeral, even with the lack of a body to bury. John would have to be checked on, as would the networks he'd tapped to begin his search. There were financial considerations to take care of, at the very least, for the three people Sherlock had held dear in his life.

Mycroft couldn't stomach the thought of breakfast. He drank water in an attempt to ease his hangover and paged through his messages. Anthea had called and left a message suggesting that he take a break from work. He ignored it. Work was what he had.

Mycroft called into the office to inform them that he'd be working from home for the next few days, barring an emergency that required his physical presence. He refilled his glass and walked to his secondary workstation, settling in for what was certain to be a long and trying day.

* * *

John stayed there on the floor for hours. The sun went down, glowing red against the furniture before it died. He'd never seen the kitchen from this angle before, and that was a strange thought to have.

Eventually, he pulled himself up, left the tea, and went to bed hoping he would never wake up to face another day like this

When John opened his eyes, everything hurt. His throat was dry, his stomach nauseous, his head pounding, but the worst was the hole in his chest that still remained. He wondered if he would wake like this every day, feeling like he was half a person, like a huge part of him was missing.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that Sherlock was downstairs. Just asleep. Or sitting on the couch in his robe, waiting for John to come down and make him a pot of coffee because he wouldn't do it himself. He'd be staring at the ceiling, rhythmically thwacking that riding crop against his knee, and muttering "…bored" under his breath. John squeezed his eyes tighter and the pain in his heart eased just the slightest bit. If he listened and imagined very, very hard, he could almost hear the thwack, thwack, thwacking of the crop and the murmur of a deep voice on the floor below. He wished with all his might that if he climbed out of bed and just walked downstairs, there Sherlock would be.

And then he did hear it. A thump, thump, thump from the floor below. 

John froze. He heard a murmur of voices. His eyes snapped open. He bolted upright, disabled for a moment by sudden vertigo, and recovered. He raced down the stairs, mind in a flurry of possibility until he reached the sitting room.

It was empty. Someone was knocking on the door. John straightened, his mind catching up with him. Whoever it was, it wasn't Sherlock. It wasn't his daydream. John headed for the door. He glanced out the window on the way and something caught his eye. Media vans. John stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He turned around and went to the window. There was a small army of television news reporters outside, and they were attracting a crowd. His heart sank and his blood went cold. He closed the shade before they saw him and turned on the telly. The first thing he saw was Sherlock.

Mycroft noticed the media explosion as soon as he began checking the current events - his custom-built program had helpfully catalogued all the threads worth noting and presented them for him to peruse at his leisure. The screens that were tuned to different telly channels were all full of commentators speculating about his brother, the string of recent crimes, and the dramatic showdown on the bridge. As aggravating as that was, it was expected. Equally expected was the live video footage of reporters staked out outside 221 Baker Street, and Mycroft cursed his lack of oversight the previous day. It was obvious that this was going to happen, and he'd been too drunk and depressed to put a plan into place.

Mycroft checked the security feeds and, sure enough, John hadn't left the flat since the previous night. He was trapped inside, unless he wanted to wade through the media personnel that were circling like sharks before a feeding frenzy. Mycroft grabbed his phone and selected John's number.

When his phone went off, John was standing in front of the telly in horror. He looked around the room and finally fished it out of his coat pocket. It was Mycroft. A dizzying wave of relief washed over him as he pressed the mobile to his ear. "I just woke up," he said, forgoing the niceties, "They're surrounding the place. I can't leave. God Mycroft, I just saw the news. They did a whole story on him overnight."

Mrs. Hudson was knocking on the door. "John! John, I don't know what to do with them," she called. "I've told them you were out, but I don't think they believe me."

He let her in, keeping one ear with Mycroft.

"I just woke up as well. I should have anticipated this. It looks like they're all still outside, so they haven't broken into the building at least." There'd be severe repercussions for anyone who dared. Mycroft brought up the CCTV feeds, quickly scanning the area to get a better feel for the situation. "They've got you surrounded for the moment. I need a bit of time to enact a solution. Are you both alright for the moment? I'm assuming from what I've heard that you have Mrs. Hudson in the room with you."

"Yes, we're fine," John said. He couldn't believe this was happening to him, and without Sherlock here to barrel them through the crowd with their collars turned up and heads down. This had happened before, after Sherlock started getting a bit of notoriety, but there hadn't been this many people and they'd all been here for good reasons. Now, John felt like they might as well have been carrying pitchforks. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson and she gave him a nervous smile. "Just….if there's anything you can do to get them away…."

"We'll beat them off if we have to!" Mrs. Hudson added over his shoulder, probably not even sure who John was talking to.

Mycroft was already working on a diversion. His rank was high enough that, when requests were submitted, they were rarely questioned. He'd worked in his position for long enough that all of the key personnel were familiar with his name and status, if not with him as an individual. He got textual confirmation on one of his monitors: the necessary teams had been dispatched. He turned his attention back to his phone, keeping one eye on the CCTV feed.

"John, it will take a few minutes, but the entire area is going to clear out. Please inform Mrs. Hudson that, despite whatever you hear, that you are not to go outside. It's merely an excuse to shunt people out of the neighborhood for a temporary period."

"Er, alright?" John glanced through the curtain again and then turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Mycroft's going to do something. We're not to leave the house."

She nodded emphatically before going back to wringing her hands. "This is going to give Mrs. Brown and the Tweed sisters enough to gossip about til next year," she moaned and John felt sorry for her. She had very few friends, and when even the other odd sorts of people on the block started talking, poor Mrs. Hudson had little chance to make any.

"Why exactly would we be going outside anyway?" John asked, wondering what Mycroft could be doing.

The answer became apparent enough when sirens began to wail in the distance. A few squad cars pulled up alongside a van, and from the sound of it the scenario was being repeated in a few other places around the block. One of the officers got out a megaphone and began declaring that a gas leak had sprung in several nearby buildings and created a hazard, instructing people to leave in a calm and orderly fashion. Other officers began moving through the crowd and directing them away, on pain of arrest. Several men and women in jumpsuits got out of the van, slipping on protective masks and splitting up to cover the buildings on the block.

The media reporters and cameramen put up a fuss but finally, slowly, left. The noise outside the flat died down. The flickers of police lights cast odd moving shadows in the flat as the officers started putting up barriers on the end of the block. "I can keep the bulk of them on the other side of the barrier, barring some of the more adventurous ones, for a couple of days, but no more. Are you both alright?"

"Yeah. Thanks," John sighed in relief and dropped into the armchair. He'd be able to make a statement that he wasn't going to talk to the press within that time, and after a couple days their story will have gone cold enough that they, hopefully, wouldn't feel the need to camp out in front of his doorstep. John didn't hold out any delusions that they wouldn't be following him, harassing him, not after the kind of accusations he'd just seen on the telly, but at least this would buy him some time. He rubbed a hand over his face. He really didn't want to have to leave Baker St., and there was no way he was leaving Mrs. Hudson to deal with this on her own.

Mrs. Hudson, who'd been watching everything from the window, came over to pat him on the shoulder. "There, there. I'll make a cuppa' and we'll get this sorted out." She left for the kitchen.

"Don't know what I'd do without you, Mycroft," John gave a little, broken laugh into the phone. "I really appreciate it."

This wouldn't be the last of it, John knew. They were just going to have to wait it out.

John's words tugged at Mycroft, as did the laugh that followed. He'd kept the doctor at a distance before his brother had died, and now he found himself becoming quickly attached and sentimental towards the man. John was his last remaining link, and though he'd never replace Sherlock... Mycroft already felt overprotective.

"You're more than welcome. I'm assuming that you don't have provisions stockpiled in the flat, and you can't venture outside. I can have things brought. What do you need?"

John doubted he would be able to tell whether the pain in his gut meant he was hungry or just hurting for some time, so he called into the kitchen. "How are we doing on tea, Mrs. Hudson? Getting a bit low?"

"A bit," was the answer from around the corner.

John leaned back and tried to bury himself in the chair, getting settled for a wait. "Tea, biscuits. Something to make sandwiches. That'll be fine."

"Alright. Just hold tight for a while. I'll contact you in a bit." Mycroft ended the conversation and stared at the screens encircling his desk for a moment before coming to a decision. A few quick calls put the necessary gears in motion, and Mycroft packed up his portable workstation. He doubted he'd get much done today, but he'd curse himself if he had the opportunity to work later and found himself without the means to do so.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, someone knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street.

John looked up from his laptop and met Mrs. Hudson's gaze from the hall. She'd come to see who it was, but he wasn't about to let her get the door. When he opened it, he was met with an unexpectedly familiar face. Dressed in street clothes and a hat, John was taken aback at how utterly different Mycroft looked. "Wow," he said, moving to let him in, "You almost look like a normal person. I wasn't expecting you."

Mycroft slid through the doorway and out of view from the street, smiling briefly and hefting the bags he was carrying. "I didn't want to be stuck working alone, but I didn't want to go to the office," he offered by way of explanation. Even with the laptop case slung over one shoulder and the plastic bags full of foodstuffs, Mycroft looked far skinnier without the added bulk of a 3 piece suit. Skinnier and bizarrely different, more like the awkward individuals one might find behind an IT counter and less like a secret agent or cutthroat businessman.

"Well, now you'll be stuck here, I suppose," John said halfheartedly. He wasn't sure if it was best, but Mycroft could undoubtedly get himself out of Baker St. if he needed to. He led the way back to the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson, seeing that it was Mycroft, came out again.

"Oh hello, dear," she said, "You didn't have to come all this way by yourself. Such a gentleman."

"I've been reading up on the news," John went on, unfazed by her presence. If possible, he was even less lively than he'd been earlier that morning when he'd spoken to Mycroft. "They've pinned everything on him, everything from Sally's files, everything from the cop killings to the chemical scare at the Yard…just…everything."

Mycroft flushed at Mrs. Hudson's comment. He deposited the provisions on the kitchen table. "I'm aware. There's nothing we can do at the moment. If they've suspended DI Lestrade pending an investigation, that means they'll be combing back through all the old cases. Sally Donovan made a convincing argument at first glance, but her accusations won't hold up under a thorough examination." Especially given the strings he'd pulled with certain individuals on the force, but they didn't need to know that.

"They'll have a brief field day, it will blow over, and at least some of the charges should be cleared relatively quickly. The Moriarty cases will be trickier, and it will require more evidence to clear Sherlock's name. That's where our work will come in."

John nodded and sat back down in front of his laptop at the desk. He looked at it, but didn't touch it. Unless they pulled off a miracle with Moriarty's cases, there was going to be doubt about Sherlock no matter what. He was gone and his life's work was being destroyed. John was living in a castle that was falling to the ground. He watched as Mrs. Hudson began to unpack the bags Mycroft had brought and stock the refrigerator.

"Anyone up for sandwiches?" she asked, but John only shook his head.

His blog was open on the screen. A blank post lay before him. He hadn't touched in days, but the comments were rolling in. He couldn't read them anymore. He had only one thing left to say.

_Sherlock was innocent._

He made the post and disabled comments.

Mycroft unpacked his laptop and began setting up his workstation. He kept an eye on John throughout the process, noting the small changes in expression as John sat in front of his laptop. 

"The flurry will pass, John," Mycroft said quietly. "The next few weeks will be hard, but it will pass."

John looked up. "Except I'll be living with this for the rest of my life," he said. The circus would die down, that he understood, but those three words he's just announced to the world…they would be his mantra until the bitter end. John didn't know where that end would be. Maybe he would remain in the public eye. Maybe he would fade into obscurity, mentioned every few years or so when some journalist decided to do a follow up story on one of the greatest criminals who'd ever lived, Sherlock Holmes. People would either pity him and his loyalty or they'd think he'd been in on the ruse the whole time. He sighed and laid his head in his hands.

"You're not the only one burdened with this," Mycroft pointed out. He'd brought up his program on the screen but found that he couldn't make his eyes focus on the scrolling data or the lists demanding his attention. "I stay out of the public spotlight, and I've proven my loyalty to the government many times over, but I'm still going to face scrutiny in some sectors over this. When the media figures out Sherlock had a brother, and they will, make no mistake about that," Mycroft added bitterly. "They're going to attempt to infringe on my privacy. It's going to be a security nightmare as well as being personally aggravating."

"Then we'll _all_ be living with this for the rest of our lives," John corrected himself. It made little difference. He used to think of the future as some exciting thing, even if he was fast approaching his later years and had very little income to speak of. And now…all he had was a tarnished name. He could have withstood it had Sherlock been here. Sherlock was one of those people who created excitement wherever he went. John may have followed it, lived on it, loved the rush of it, but he was not one to create it. "If you keep visiting me, it's only going to make your security problem worse," John added, just for the cheer.

Mycroft peered at John over the top of his screen. "I'm not abandoning you to face this alone. I'll come up with a solution. Creative solutions is a large part of my work." John didn't appear to be convinced, sinking further into dejection as the weight of everything overwhelmed his normal stoic bravery. Mycroft watched him helplessly. He'd known how to draw Sherlock out of his depressions because he and his brother had been so very alike on some levels. He could read John, but he hadn't found all the right strings to pull yet.

The one thing John wanted more than anything, Mycroft couldn't give him.

There was simply no fixing something like this. No amount of manipulation could fill the void that Sherlock had left. John was old enough to know that the only thing that had a chance was time. And it would be long, so long, in coming.

He braced himself as much as he could and continued his perusal of the coverage Sherlock was receiving online. They sat like that, together in the sitting room, Mycroft working and John browsing. It was much like any other day at Baker St. when the younger brother had been there instead of the elder, even though his presence was sorely missed.

Mycroft got up at one point and made tea for the both of them. He'd purchased more than the simple foodstuffs John had asked for, so another pair of chocolate digestives graced the side of the saucer that Mycroft set in front of John. He lingered at John's side, glancing over his shoulder at the screen filled with articles and pictures. "Don't torment yourself, John. It's all going to be the same, and looking at all of it right now won't help."

John looked at him. His face was blank, his tawny hair was matted, his shoulders drooped. "How do you do it?" John asked. "Whether I look at it or not, it's all I can think about." _He_ was all John could think about. With a sigh, he pushed the computer away and turned his gaze to the window. Sherlock remained more vividly in his mind than he perhaps ever had when he was alive and here with John.

"I do it because I have to. I had to learn to set my feelings aside for a time in order to take care of things because the consequences of failing were unacceptable." Mycroft stepped back to give John space, settling on the sofa instead. "You don't get rid of it, just bottle it up for later, and eventually it has to come out. But you control when, rather than being an inconsolable mess all of the time. It lets you be sane and function for a time, long enough to do what needs to be done."

"So it comes out, one way or another. Even you let it out," John said to the window. This wasn't an entirely mind boggling theory for him. It had been the way he'd operated in the army. It was hard imagining Mycroft breaking down. "The trouble is," John began, "there's nothing left to be taken care of. Nothing important, anyway."

The media would go on spinning their stories for as long as they could. Richard Brook and his fairytales were long gone. He could only rely on Mycroft's intelligence where those problems were concerned. Truthfully, it was hard to find anything of importance to do when the most important person in the world was gone and the one who had murdered him disappeared into the night. Like a storybook villain.

John looked at his hands. "You said someone would check on that kid. The one from the studio…." Something began to form in John's mind. He had nothing left to do, nothing in his power left to fix. Except maybe one thing. People, _children_ apparently, had also been pawns in Moriarty's plan, even if John could not fathom why but to reenact his story. "I want to make sure he's okay."

Mycroft nodded. "I'm having the situation looked into. I will eventually have to have someone question him, not only to ascertain that he's alright, but to see if he can recall any details that might be important. People often drop their guard around children."

John had a determined look in his eye. Mycroft thought that a considerable improvement from the bleak despair of a moment earlier. His purpose had become tracking Moriarty and taking care of John, but John needed a purpose as well. "I can take you with me when I go to see him, or send you with the psychologist I intend to have check up on him. Or both, if you'd rather."

"Yes," John said. "That would be good. I only saw him briefly, but at least he'd remember me." Jake, his name had been. John just hoped the boy wouldn't be afraid of him. Now that the tables had turned on Sherlock, who knew how the studio who'd been poised to run a program based on him would feel.

"He may not feel kindly disposed towards either of us, depending on what has occurred. If he was groomed as an accomplice by Moriarty, he'll feel that we are his enemies and will be under a great deal of emotional stress and turmoil over his mentor's disappearance. Recent events may also have jeopardized his career in theatre, which may cause him to resent us. We're going to have to be careful not to cause more damage with our questions and presence."

John couldn't imagine a kid being Moriarty's willing accomplice. Even if he'd been fooled by Rich like John had been, he couldn't imagine the boy knowing what 'Moriarty' did for fun. Even if he'd acted well in that video, recorded specifically for Sherlock. John's stomach turned, wondering if his instincts could possibly be wrong. 'Rich' would have had a hard time explaining what they were recording to an innocent kid, wouldn't he? Especially the ending.

"If we show him the truth, explain to him who Richard Brook was…." John began, "we might have hope." After all, John had been lied to as well, drawn in by Rich's sincerity and excitement. He could at least relate to the boy there.

"Perhaps so. Children are-" Mycroft hesitated. His experiences with Sherlock weren't anywhere close to what was standard. "...not necessarily logical. Even with physical proof, he may just continue to deny it. Burying oneself in self-delusion isn't limited to adults. People can ignore and deny things to a surprising degree, even when contradictory evidence is right in front of them." Even with as logical as Sherlock had been, that portion of human psychology had held true.

John glanced at Mycroft. "You sound very certain." Mycroft's expression did not change. It didn't even move. John couldn't decipher what that meant, not like Sherlock could. Not like Mycroft himself could. He was probably reading John like an open book right now, so John just decided to have out with it. "Was there something you're not telling me?"

"When most actors are plying their trade, even as adults, they are often not as careful with their body language as they should be, concentrating their focus on their facial expressions and overt gestures instead. The boy is rather young, and his performance was much more complete than a child of that age would normally be capable of delivering. Either he's a prodigy in that respect, or he was told a series of convincing lies by Moriarty and completely bought into the message he was given. Whether that message was the truth of the situation or a fantasy Moriarty thought would be more acceptable, I'm uncertain, but would bet upon the latter."

John sat back and thought about that for a while. That did seem very likely, especially if Mycroft picked up on it. John could tell a good actor from a bad actor, but he couldn't pick up on the subtleties of it. "That would seem like something Rich, or…Moriarty, could have managed."

John did notice that Mycroft neglected to address his question, however, and that bothered him somewhat. He'd just gone from discovering he'd been kept in the dark by one Holmes. Now he worried that things may be the same with the other.

Mycroft immediately picked up on John's disquiet, but was uncertain of what he could do to mollify it. He hadn't told John everything, hadn't shown him everything. The doctor's current distress was bad enough without subjecting him to more. Mycroft had already begun to make arrangements to ensure the youth received all the help he needed to recover, but John having that knowledge would do neither him nor the boy any good. No matter how well-intentioned John's motives were, it would be one more piece of guilt and pain hanging over him, and one more mortifying breach of privacy for the boy. He already wouldn't want to see Mycroft or John. He might outright refuse to talk if John's caregiver instincts took over and he forgot that he was not qualified to be a therapist.

"We'll sort it out, John. I'm including you in matters as much as is prudent. I know it's difficult, given my brother's deception, but you're simply going to have to trust me. I have no intention to hurt you further."

John could only smile ruefully. "I think…would like to think, that's what Sherlock must have thought he was doing, too."

John couldn't hate Mycroft for it any more than he could hate Sherlock for it. But there it was all the same. When Sherlock had lied and led him blindfolded down a path he knew to be dangerous, he could only have thought he was sparing John the pain of the truth. Maybe he had been. Maybe John would not have liked whatever truths Sherlock thought he had to hide, but look at how well that had turned out for the both of them.

Mycroft could read John's thoughts clear as day, even through the smile. It stung, even if it was understandable. Even if it was for good reason, as he _was_ keeping John in the dark about some things. The Holmes family had always been about secrets, and his job consisted almost entirely of them. Deception was second-nature for Mycroft at this point.

Mycroft sighed and leaned forward, resting his chin against his interlaced fingers. Perhaps he was overreaching himself again, crossing the line from protective to overbearing. Perhaps it was a mistake to come at all.

John was watching him out of the corner of his eye. He shifted, but didn't look away. Finally, after a minute, he broke. "You know…he used to do that," John nodded indicating the position of Mycroft's hands. "I never realized how much the two of you had in common before. Even when you were here."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but he leaned back from the position. It wouldn't do to trigger John, even inadvertently. "Family habit. We spent a lot of time together. Gestures can be helpful to train as cues to certain modes of thought. We trained together in a lot of areas, so I expect we chose a lot of the same gestures."

John shook his head. "I don't mind. It's…" Well, it hurt to be reminded. Every memory hurt right then, but… "It's nice. Familiar." John didn't want to start pretending that Mycroft was Sherlock. He probably couldn't even if he'd tried. But, just for now, the familiarity was comforting. 

Mycroft hesitated, gaze flicking over John before he decided that the doctor was being truthful. He settled back into the position, eyes going unfocused as he thought. "Let me know if my presence is bothering you. I'd rather not fracture things between us by overstaying my welcome or pushing too hard. I sometimes fail to notice the gap between what would be beneficial to a person and what they can handle at that moment."

John laughed. He wasn't sure if it sounded like a real laugh, but at least it came out. "Sherlock didn't have much trouble reminding you." Then again, Mycroft hadn't had much trouble ignoring Sherlock's reminders. John sighed. "I'll let you know. It's fine. Really. It's just…everything's a bit….raw. I'll tell you when I need to be alone."

Mycroft nodded, considering matters in silence for a few more minutes before he rose and took a seat in front of his laptop again. They spent the remainder of the afternoon in companionable silence, but for the clicking of keys and mouse. Mycroft didn't seem much bothered by the lack of conversation.

* * *

Gradually, Sherlock was becoming familiar with the business. 

Jim fixed people's problems. Specifically, he fixed criminal problems. The nastier, the better. Also, the more intriguing, the better. 'Intriguing' weighed solely on the scales of Jim's tastes. He picked up several jobs he'd had in waiting since he'd gone on hiatus for Sherlock. One such job based on intrigue was the theft and switch of of Caravaggio's _The Lute Player_ from the Wildenstein Collection. Although worth close to 100 million US dollars, Jim's client would not be reselling the painting, much too difficult, and was only offering a percentage of its actual worth. Still, Jim was a fan of the painting and ultimately decided that the opportunity to see it whenever he liked surpassed the money he was losing.

Sebastian came and went more often that his employer. Often the gunman acted in place of Jim when a real, human face was needed, for example, to meet with one of the Mexican cartels residing in California. They had taken issue with another crime lord on the east coast and hired Moriarty to dispatch their problem. Sebastian, though either unabashedly casual or stoic and all military much of the time he was in Sherlock's presence, acted the no-nonsense businessman with skill.

It became clear that Jim did not only operate alone in his tower on individual jobs. He had his fingers in everything from sex trafficking in Taiwan to arms in the Middle East. He funded businesses in Tokyo and inspired legends of cypher hackers and programing junkies online.

When he wasn't playing catchup, Jim took Sherlock out. Every night they saw something new in the city. Museums, the opera, restaurants, magic shows on the street corner, anything that caught Jim's big black eyes.

Sherlock was growing increasingly restless. Despite the nightly explorations, both of the city and pieces of his newly discovered taste for sexual endeavors, Sherlock had little to do for the majority of the day. He could observe bits of Jim's work, but it wasn't the same as being engaged in the work itself. Exploring pieces of the city during the day by himself was diverting at times, but it quickly lost the edge of novelty. Sherlock filled portions of the time by locking himself in his room and sinking into the music, but the pieces he selected grew increasingly dark and frustrated in tone.

Sherlock awoke one morning in a foul mood, knowing that there were hours of boredom ahead before anything of interest would happen. He cleaned up, dressed, and stalked down the stairs, dramatically flopping onto an empty sofa when he reached the living room and settled into a sulk.

Jim was in his usual spot, this time curled around his laptop with his back to the armrest. His eyes followed Sherlock until he'd gotten comfortable. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that if you weren't going to make yourself useful, then it was time to find something to do of your own?"

Jim was goading him. The little criminal didn't mind Sherlock's presence in the slightest, even if he was lying listlessly about. He'd also intentionally dropped just enough details about his projects over the last several days to inspire at least minor curiosity in Sherlock.

"I don't care about being _useful_." Sherlock's voice fairly dripped with disdain. "I'm _bored_. You work by yourself every day. Your pet bodyguard is off on some task and unavailable. I have no access to a morgue. I've exhausted the small supply of experimental components in the spare room. I have _nothing to do_."

Sherlock rolled off the sofa and got to his feet, approaching Jim where he sat. "I'm going mad. My brain is eating itself. I need something. Give me something." He sank into a crouch, eyes feverish as they settled on Jim.

Jim's lips curled in his predatory fashion. His toes dug into the sofa cushion beneath him and he leaned toward Sherlock, twisting his upper body. "I _may_ have just the thing," he drawled with a nonchalant air. "If you don't mind a bit of leg work, that is." His smirk grew fractionally, knowing perfectly well how much Sherlock enjoyed getting out.

Sherlock growled. "I don't mind it. Give. Me. _Something_." He leaned forward as he spoke, invading Jim's space in response to the challenge. Jim was drawing this out, and both of them knew the game. Sherlock didn't even mind that he was being played at this point, so long as he got something to ease the pain gnawing at his mind.

Jim's sharp canines made an appearance. His mood was only heightened by Sherlock's anger. He pushed the laptop out of the way and leaned marginally closer. Their faces were inches apart. "Sebastian is going to be making a very high profile heist tomorrow night," he began laying the foundation. "The alarm will be tripped, there's no avoiding it. He needs someone to clear a getaway path, or all of NYPD will be on his tail within two minutes, and we can't have that." Jim pouted. "So, in the tried and true method of divide and conquer, distraction will be our key. Before the heist occurs, an anonymous car bomb will explode precisely ten city blocks in the opposite direction he will be leaving. From there, at least five more bombs need to be strategically placed in regards to location, proximity to police stations, and timing within the city, drawing officers en masse away from our little man on the run. He will be leaving from Christie's private sales auction house just blocks from Times Square."

Sherlock considered this. Not only would it be tricky to install such devices without drawing attention from passersby, in a city as teeming with life as New York, car bombs were bound to cause collateral damage. Still, given how densely packed buildings were, car bombs might prove to be the most harmless option available. "It has to be cars?" Sherlock asked. "Show me, and I'll decide if I want to do it."

In reality, there was little debate to be had. If Sherlock didn't install the bombs, Jim would simply have someone else do it. If he was in control of staging the explosives, Sherlock at least had a chance of choosing ways to minimize the number of possible deaths and injured people.

Jim shrugged. "It can be a horde of plague rats; it just needs to draw the attention of the NYPD faster than Sebastian. He'll be heading north into Manhattan. Once he loses the cops, with your help, he'll ditch the bike and disappear. And we'll have a shiny new rock to play with before it's delivered to our client." Jim was using words like 'our' now. "You can set them up however you like, but timing and location will be key."

It was enough. Sherlock could work with this. "I'm going to need to see a detailed map and know precisely when Sebastian is going to trigger the alarm." Timing and distance were going to be a factor, but it would also have to be something dire and flashy enough to draw enough attention to get the NYPD off Sebastian's tail. Sherlock's mind was already turning the problem over and examining it from multiple angles, trying to find the best solution.

Jim grinned. His eyes lit up. "Barring complication, he'll set it off at precisely 1:35am. He'll be exiting on motorbike shortly after and wearing a GPS that we will be able to monitor. Fortunately, I also have an array of GPS signals for every squad car in the city, so we will also be monitoring them as they close in. Bombs will still have to be in place beforehand, there won't be time later, but we'll have a certain amount of wiggle room in which to set them off while we're watching the scene unfold. And as for a map…" Jim used his foot to push one of his unused laptops over the coffee table.

"Are we using pre-timed, or remote detonation?" Sherlock picked up the offered laptop and moved to a nearby chair. He brought up a satellite map of the city. A quick scan of the streets showed a variety of locations that would be prime for the job. The choice was now whether to pick something close to landmark buildings to attract more attention, or random sites that might have less passersby.

"Your choice. We're ready either way." Jim pulled his own laptop back over his legs, but the little smile that played on his lips remained. He went back to work, fingers clicking away at the keys. While Sherlock worked out the diversion, he was lining up negotiations with the client, and making sure he was watched around the clock. Any change in his daily routine as they neared this critical juncture and Jim would have to find out why. He was not only a deeply ambitious man, he was also deeply paranoid.

Remote detonators gave more control, but with the distance they'd have to operate at, and the amount of interference that might block the signal... Sherlock frowned, scrolling through the map and committing the necessary data to memory. If Sebastian could keep to the timeline, pre-timed detonators shouldn't be an issue. "Give me the necessary equipment. I've planned the route." There was no guarantees it was going to be clean either, so Sherlock had opted for what was certain to work.

Jim's eyes turned to him in a flash of black and fluttering lashes. He held up a key and passed it over to Sherlock. "Everything you need will be in a storage locker just over the river in Long Island City. I'll text you the address. Once there you will find the keys and location of the vehicles you will need as well as the explosive devices. Be a dear and make sure wherever you leave them, none get towed before tomorrow night."

Sherlock shut the laptop and tossed it onto the sofa beside Jim. The smaller man always knew how to pull his strings. Even now, Jim was smiling up at him, smug and sly. So confident, so certain of his control. Sherlock crouched and caught Jim's chin with his fingers, forcing his attention away from the monitor screen. "We'll discuss payment when I get back. Be a dear and have dinner ready when I return," Sherlock said, sliding into a mimicked lilt as he parroted Jim's endearment back to him.

Laughter bubbled up from Jim's throat. He turned his head and kissed Sherlock's hand with lips that should not have been so soft. "Done. Thank you, darling," he said with heavy eyelids. Pinpoints of reflected light in pitch black irises watched Sherlock with controlled excitement.

Sherlock rose and went to get his coat. Even if it was a relatively banal task, it was something to occupy the time. Anything was better than another day, stuck staring at the white walls of his room and playing until his fingers ached, enduring the boredom until the buzzing in his head made him grit his teeth in pain. The lift chimed as the doors opened to admit him, and Sherlock disappeared down into the city.

Jim's head fell back against the cushion of the sofa. His eyes closed and he let the excitement build through his body until he pushed the laptop aside and jumped to his feet. He walked to the window and pressed his forehead to the glass pane, looking down at the city below.

Sherlock was taking his first active steps into Moriarty's work. It remained to be seen just how well the detective's interest would hold. Jim could anticipate certain complications arising with Sherlock's willful and stubborn personality, but he had a very good feeling about this.

* * *

It was a number of hours before Sherlock returned, flushed from the chill of the streets. The most time-consuming part of the job hadn't been setting up the rigged cars, but the sheer travel time required to backtrack to the stockpiled vehicles and drive them to the correct locations. It hadn't been as exciting as he had hoped, but there had still been a small thrill at the danger of being discovered.

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, glancing around for Jim.

The lights were turned low and the criminal was nowhere in sight, but something delicious was in the air. Apparently Jim had not forgotten Sherlock's request. When Sherlock stepped around the corner to find two plates of Chinese waiting for him, slim arms wrapped around him from behind. Jim leaned into him, pressing his lips to Sherlock's shoulder before breathing into his ear, "I take it that went well?"

Sherlock shivered, inordinately pleased with the possessive hands at his waist and the way Jim's whisper fluttered over his skin. Jim had to go up on his toes to reach. "Mmm. Went well, but was more tedious than I cared for. Driving is slow and not particularly thrilling in congested traffic. All of them are rigged to go off at set times, so Sebastian needs to be prompt."

" _Good_ ," Jim purred. That was news he liked to hear. "He'll have a radio on him. You can let him know if he's losing time." He released Sherlock and walked around him to settle at the counter over one of the steaming plates of Mongolian chicken, digging in with a pair of long chopsticks.

Sherlock took his place in front of the other setting. Jim had timed the food just right; it was still piping hot instead of approaching lukewarm. Sherlock had skipped breakfast earlier that morning and hadn't had time to stop for food while engaged with his task, so the chicken disappeared with alarming swiftness. "I take it you kept yourself busy while I was gone." More digital, untraceable correspondences and job planning, no doubt.

"Mmhm," Jim confirmed around a mouthful of rice. He'd been at it all day. He was meticulous in the identities he created and their individual networks of communication. He could drive them to influence clients in ways that he could never as just one person. Moriarty, essentially, was a ghost. "Client is holding up well. Never pays for them to get antsy at the last minute." Sometimes they would lose their nerve and try to cut ties, break the deal, or even go to the police. That was when Jim usually got angry. 

"What do you do if they get antsy?" Sherlock asked in between bites. He never had the patience for such networking. It would only be a drain on his energy and attention. His version of networking had always been fairly straightforward.

Jim affected a modest shrug, but the mirth in his smile gave him away. "I make sure they don't stay antsy. The either come to realize that, out of all possible avenues: me, the law, rival criminals, I'm really the one they should least like to piss off." Jim sucked up a noodle. It slithered through his lips like a worm. "And if they don't, they die, and their prize goes to someone else."

Sherlock watched the noodle disappear from view. The sight was distracting and suggestive enough that Sherlock's train of thought split in two. "Do you usually have a waiting list for the spoils? Or do you just keep them?" Sherlock's plate was mostly empty now, completely demolished.

Jim looked up, his eyes sparkling in the low light. "There's always a waiting list. You just have to know where to look, it doesn't require much maintenance." He swirled the wine in his glass before tilting it to his lips, leaving them with blood red stain. "I've kept a few things for myself. But, only if I'm partial to them, or the time isn't right to sell."

"Such as?" Even if it wasn't actually blood, the color still intensified Sherlock's attention, following the boyish curves of Jim's mouth as he smirked. "I have a poor sense of your aesthetics, other than that you tend to choose modernist furniture and favor certain clothing designers."

Jim only shrugged, and so it made sense that Sherlock couldn't get a good read on him, or when he did, Jim seemed to break out of the parameters of one set of tastes and add a dash of another. Like in the way he was picking out the old tin of hard candies he'd picked up the day of Sherlock's shopping trip, and popping one in his mouth to suck on. After an expensive Chinese dinner. "Such as a beautiful home in the Himalayas, originally meant to be one client’s safe house. Turned out to be quite useful with my work in Tibet," Jim added, thoughtfully sucking on the candy. He rolled it with his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other. "More jewelry that I can shake a stick at. I tend to sell that. I've kept a handful of master paintings. But what I most often end up with if a deal goes sour are secrets and people." Jim leaned forward with his elbows on the table. His posture was relaxed. His expression, though lizard-like in his countenance, had a soft quality about it, like he was telling Sherlock a bedtime story. "Secrets, government secrets, corporate, underground, whatever they are, can almost always be put to use elsewhere. People, on the other hand, very rarely."

"Depends on the people." Mycroft had made good use of a number of individuals by catching them red-handed and tightening a noose around their necks, just enough for them to feel the pressure until they danced at the slightest twitch of a hand. One just had to keep in mind that people in such situations tended to break or try to bolt if they felt they were too far off the leash. Mycroft's head games and manipulative, possessive tendencies had been one of the main points that had soured their relationship, simply because Sherlock didn't appreciate being on the receiving end.

Jim was still sucking on his candy in the most provocative way. Sherlock didn't doubt it was intentional; Jim wasn't that oblivious. "Does anything stay constant?"

Jim thought for a long moment. His eyes cast to the far end of the counter and the candy between his teeth and his cheek. He seemed to be giving the question a great deal of consideration. It was possible he was cataloguing his entire life, looking for threads of consistency and finding very few. But Jim did not come away from his thoughts disheartened. Rather, he seemed pleased, if by just one thing. "Only the nature of my desires," he said finally.

Sherlock nodded. He could understand that well enough. He hadn't thought much about detective work until he reached a particular point in his life, but it aligned a great many things that he'd always enjoyed. Puzzles. Competition, and proving himself superior. Unraveling another person's machinations and careful plans. Proving himself the superior thinker. Chemistry.

Sherlock leaned closer and kissed Jim, stealing the candy right out of his mouth. He leaned back with a grin.

Jim licked his lips, still bent over the counter with his head inclined to the detective. He shivered minutely. His muscles tensed and relaxed over his shoulders and all the way down his back. To Sherlock, the effect his action had on the little criminal was visible. To anyone else, Jim would have seemed a statue. Finally, his lips curled. Some amusing connection formed deep in Jim's mind and he leaned into Sherlock again, having to place his hand on the detective's long leg to shorten the space between them. "Now that's one thing that never did change…," he said, breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin before he licked the corner of his full lips. He let the statement hang there, poised on a precipice and drawing it out for as long as he could, and then whispered, "My love of that candy."

"How unfortunate for you to have lost it, then." Sherlock's pulse jumped, but he stayed still as Jim's hand slid up his leg and the smaller man invaded his personal space. He'd slowly become more comfortable and confident over the past few days with having close, physical contact. Jim had respected his boundaries and his requests thus far. Seb had as well, but Sherlock thought that was more due to the bodyguard's fear and respect for Jim than for him.

Sherlock rolled the piece of candy in his mouth, mimicking what Jim had been doing moments earlier. "I suppose you'll have to get another piece, or fight me for this one."

"I'm not sure whether I like the taste of you or the candy more," Jim purred, fitting one of his knees between Sherlock's and stroking both hands over his thighs. He leaned in and nosed up the column of Sherlock's neck. "You've become almost one and the same," he whispered. "No matter how much you change, how _taller_ than I you've become," Jim laughed, "you remain the same." He was kissing along Sherlock's jaw now, making progress toward his mouth with every word. "My dear, _sweet_ Sherlock." And then Jim's tongue was prying into his mouth.

Sherlock had gotten used to Jim's attentions and acute focus. Jim's mouth on his skin never failed to raise gooseflesh, and the taste of him, invading his mouth, was enough to coax a moan out of Sherlock. Jim was suddenly too far away; Sherlock wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer and burying fingers in silky black hair. Jim deftly stole back the candy and Sherlock wasn't able to stop himself from laughing.

The shiny candy made an appearance between Jim's teeth as he grinned wide around it, and then bit, hard, shattering it into pieces he ground together and swallowed. Jim settled his arms around Sherlock and leaned close again. His lips brushed against the detective's smooth cheek, Jim's stubble tickling Sherlock's skin. "You've been so good for me lately," he whispered, " _so_ good."

Sherlock's pride bristled a bit at that - the words, the chaste kiss, as one might show affection to an obedient child. "I'm not your pet, Jim. Sebastian is." Never a pet, or a toy, or simply a piece of Jim settled into another body. "I resent the implication that you're training me. I don't need training."

Jim's chest pressed close to his, allowing Sherlock to feel the rise and fall of his breath. "I only mean that you're coming around. Fighting me less…resisting me less. And when you've finished with all that, what is there left for you but to become your own man? I have another case you might like," Jim tilted his head so that his temple rested against Sherlock's, side to side. "A real _case_. One where you find the killer, and dispose of him."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, just enjoying the warmth that bled from the other man's body with such close contact. For someone who made a habit of unnerving others, Sherlock was starting to find it strangely comforting. "Why this fixation on killing? Not that I mind one way or another, if it's necessary. You made it a requirement before the river to see if I was even capable of such actions, I understand, but I shouldn't need to prove myself further. I can only deduce that either someone wants revenge and has decided you're an assassination service, or this is a former contact who's become a bit too dangerous."

Jim chuckled and the motion bled into Sherlock. "Assassination, yes. But the revenge isn't the best part in this case…. It's that our dear client, a sweet little old lady, doesn't know for whom she's searching. Her husband's killer was never discovered. And so," Jim stroked his hand through Sherlock's curls, "with the world's only consulting detective wandering aimlessly through his days at my side, I decided to take the case."

That wasn't all that different from a favor Sherlock had done in the past, really. Mrs. Hudson had been so very grateful to escape her husband's dangerous intentions and see that justice was done. The end result would be similar, albeit quicker and less costly. Jim's finger's brushed over the shell of one ear and Sherlock quirked a smile. "That sounds acceptable, although I hope it will actually be a challenge. It's boring when I catch them too quickly."

Then again, Sherlock didn't really have his pick of job possibilities. Not yet, at least, and even a simplistic case would be a temporary distraction.

Jim drew back and his dark eyes scanned Sherlock. Jim did this occasionally, pausing to assess him, deciphering the detective's mood, motivations, honesty, internal weather, everything, in a way that he didn't with anyone or anything else. Perhaps it was simply because Sherlock was harder to decode, the same as Jim was, than anything else they encountered. Whether Jim's assessments of him were accurate or not had yet to be proven, for the criminal had not shared what they were.

"I think you'll have at least a bit of fun with this one," Jim said finally. "After all, it has been 25 years in the waiting."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. Jim's words implied that there was something significant to this case, a greater challenge than simply picking up a cold trail more than two decades later. "I'd worked cold cases before. You must think there's a twist that will catch my fancy." Jim had succeeded in piquing his curiosity, at least. Dark eyes bored into him, trying to touch the web of his mind as Sherlock stared back and attempted the same. For all that they were showing themselves to be eerily similar, they hadn't quite synced up yet.

A coy glint touched Jim's eye and he ducked his head with a smile. "There may be…." Jim must have given it at least a cursory investigation before bringing it up to Sherlock. He had that look about him, like he had something in store for Sherlock and he knew it. And then he traced his fingers over the detective's brow and his mind must have moved on because his eyes grew distant, roaming Sherlock's face. He was calculating again. The job Sherlock had set up tonight, the case he had in mind for Sherlock in the future, they were minor details of a bigger picture, and Jim often got lost in it.

Sherlock watched Jim's expression shift, staring back and trying to divine the intent behind Jim's dark eyes. It was frustrating, sometimes, how much he couldn't read the smaller man with any reliability, but it was also a draw. There was an element of surprise that he'd not found in many other people throughout his life and, strangely, and element of quiet. In a world full of people who shouted their intentions and thoughts and sordid histories at the top of their lungs, Jim was a soothing whisper. "I'll find out eventually."

"Yes, you will," Jim's whisper solidified in the real world. He was touching Sherlock again, sliding his hands between them over Sherlock's clothing and down his chest. There were moments, like just a minute ago, when it seemed that Jim did not know how to act around Sherlock. He claimed to want the detective as an equal partner, but now and again he would default into a superior, bordering on manipulative, stance. Like the assorted personas, it could have been that Jim did not know how to navigate otherwise.

Sherlock tightened his embrace and pulled Jim into his lap. The smaller man wasn't a child, but the difference in height was enough that it sometimes brought out similar impulses. As he'd grown more comfortable with the developing relationship, Sherlock had found that he enjoyed being wrapped around Jim. It was absurd to think it protective, as Jim didn't need any more protection, but it felt... right. Particularly after Jim slid out of a period of intense control.

The funny thing was, Jim didn't seem to mind it either. The dominance he was unable to give up in speech and posturing bled out of Jim's body until he was pliant in Sherlock's hands. His lower body melted against Sherlock, back arching and thighs tightening around Sherlock's waist. He pressed himself into the detective as much as their bodies would allow, burrowing into his arms and began kissing along the column of his neck. 

Sherlock stroked fingers through Jim's hair and tilted his head, giving Jim easier access. Even for as long as he'd held himself aloof for years, this amount of touch no longer seemed as strange as it did a few days ago. What had been an abject shock had become quickly desensitized - not enough that Sherlock no longer felt anything, but enough that it no longer made him automatically plan several exit strategies to escape the situation.

It showed in his whole body, relaxed and confident, at least enough to hold Jim against him. And the smaller man had given him that. In this one way, Jim had begun pulling away the layers of Sherlock's defenses and had proven Sherlock more capable than even the detective had thought himself. It begged the question, as Jim undid Sherlock's shirt and pulled it free of his trousers, whether Jim eventually planned to murder him with self confidence. Jim was a kind of power bubbling up within the world, uncontrolled, and uncontained. Sherlock's brother had always warned of such things.

The thought had occurred to the detective, but it had been dismissed. Perhaps ego was a factor, but Jim simply didn't regard other people in the same way that he did Sherlock. While Sherlock still had worries about the various directions that Jim's odd feelings could go, keeping him locked away as a favorite possession or viewing him as a subordinate part of Jim's own body, his fears had thus far looked to be unfounded. Aside from the tension at the beginning of their time in New York, Jim hadn't forced his affections, had respected the privacy of Sherlock's rooms, and let him have a great measure of personal freedom. Freedom even to make decisions that obviously angered him, such as the continued substance use.

Jim's hand touched Sherlock's chest and Sherlock's own hands drifted down to the small of Jim's back.

"Let's take this to bed," Jim said when his mouth had found its way to Sherlock's ear. He kissed Sherlock's lips, pulling back and drawing the detective with him before they broke apart. Jim's dark eyes were half lidded, making him look either sleepy or drugged, but the hint of teeth showing under his smile gave away the hard edge to his intentions. He slid off Sherlock's legs and landed on the floor, hands trailing in a path down the detective's hips as he went. He turned half toward his rooms, drawing Sherlock along behind him with the tips of his fingers.

Jim had not invited Sherlock to his bed before. Their prior explorations, even with Seb, had always taken place within the more open space of the apartment. In fact, Sherlock had never _seen_ Jim's bedroom before the criminal led him into it. It was, in a word, dark. Elegant, but sparse, the few pieces of furniture were such a dark wood that they were nearly black. The room's only decorations were a giant, thick framed mirror high on the wall and a single red vase on a stand in the corner.

Sherlock turned to take in the room's details, gaze noting every object as Jim shut the door behind them. More than the different location, something was different tonight. Jim often had moods within moods, hidden and only hinted at by subtle ripples across the surface. The smaller man had something specific in mind, and Sherlock was suddenly on edge.

For most people, the personal touches displayed in intimate, private spaces revealed quite a lot about them. Sherlock wondered if the current room was truthful, or one more presented mask.

Jim slinked up to him and slid his hands up Sherlock's ribs. He moved the loose fabric of the shirt away and kissed the pulse point in Sherlock's neck. Jim was backing him up to the bed. Their movement was slow with Jim ever so subtly taking control again, except that everything he did was visible in the mirror behind him. Sherlock need only glance over Jim's shoulder to see the picture they made from afar. It was striking. Sherlock, with a model's height and pale skin, revealed as Jim pushed the shirt down his shoulders, corralled against the bed by Jim, much shorter, but with sleek dark hair and a strong stance, visible in his shoulders and the width of his steps as he advanced.

Sherlock retreated until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. Even with the height difference between them, the changes in Jim made him seem larger than life. Sly black eyes gazed up at Sherlock from underneath dark lashes, but he felt as if he were the smaller of the two of them. There was a sudden sense of vertigo and the room turned, and then Sherlock was the one staring up at Jim; he'd been pushed off balance. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, only to be quieted as Jim's mouth trailed down his chest. He could feel Jim's hands working at his waistband. Nothing thus far was out of the ordinary, aside from the new location, but Sherlock couldn't suppress a shiver.

Hot breath washed over Sherlock's skin as Jim gave a tiny, excited laugh. "You're so eager. I truly think I've kindled a new addiction in you." Although he really wasn't one to talk. The criminal's state of arousal was just as keen as Sherlock's, if not more so with whatever he had in mind.

Jim pulled Sherlock's trousers down his legs, along with his pants, in a series of swift movements until Jim stood, still clothed and with one knee on the bed, hovering over Sherlock. The detective was completely naked, and Jim only emphasized that difference when he bent forward and brushed against Sherlock. His clothing was silk smooth, a delight to touch, but it was nothing like his skin.

"I want to be inside you tonight," Jim whispered.

Fear and lust warred for dominance on Sherlock's features - an odd combination touched with a small amount of curiosity. The detective had known it was only a matter of time before Jim wanted to push their sexual activities further. He'd given some amount of thought to it, but he hadn't counted on Jim being this impatient and wanting more this soon. It was one thing to consider an action from the safety of a constructed fantasy. It was quite another to consider it in real life, much less when Jim already had him stripped bare.

Sherlock took a shaky breath. Jim had already begun a power play with the differing states of undress. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

Jim's little touches didn't stop, or even slow, but he had heard. He acknowledged Sherlock's statement only by not taking his movements any further. He did press his weight into the detective below him, and he did run his fingers tantalizingly low on Sherlock's abdomen, but Jim held his gaze and let the touch amount to a tease. "You 'don't know'?" Jim repeated. A smile was trying to pull at his lips. He bent and pressed their foreheads together, something that was becoming kind of a thing with Jim, this motion. Whenever he wanted to be close to Sherlock, he would press their heads together. It was a little unorthodox, but…in a strange way, it made sense for Jim.

It made sense, and it worked for the two of them. The electric change that was a constant presense between them was amplified when they were pressed so close together, thoughts crowding to the surface and jumping the narrowed gap. Sherlock read the intent behind Jim's eyes, knew, and he could see Jim divining the scenarios playing out in Sherlock's mind. Sherlock knew what was involved, had an educated guess on what the experience would be like, but was balking at the details. He wasn't getting past the imagined discomfort, nor the worry that Jim might lose control. Sherlock could see a bit of what lurked at Jim's core, even with as well as the man hid it. "You've been kind thus far, but I've seen deeper."

That little smile that had been threatening the corners of Jim's mouth flickered wide for a moment. It wasn't a nice smile. Some little part of Jim must have delighted at the recognition, even if it was inconveniencing him at the moment. Perhaps due to his belief that he saw something similarly as deep in Sherlock.

Jim's caresses slowed. His eyes focused on Sherlock's. "Are you afraid of me, Sherlock?" Jim's breath tickled his lips. "Because I think…. _I_ think you wouldn't mind so much when you look that close."

"I would have to be exceptionally stupid not to have some amount of fear, and I'm far from moronic. Just because you make a number of exceptions for me and wish to keep me alive at your side doesn't mean that I'm safe." They stared at each other for a long moment, predator and not-quite-prey. "You're hardly the first monster I've encountered. I figured that piece of you out early on. You really only attempt to hide it from me when you're trying to coax me in a particular direction."

Sherlock's hands slid over Jim's, trapping them to keep them from drifting any lower. "You are correct; I don't mind what you are. I mind whether you're able to control it. I'm not about to let you rip me to pieces, figuratively or literally."

"If I couldn't control my urges, do you _really_ think you would have lasted this long?" Jim hissed. He pressed tighter against the body below him. "Give me some credit, I'm not a raving animal." And that was true, Jim may have ultimately given into his monstrous nature, in the grand scheme of things, but he had also spent long periods of time shutting it out. He would have had to do so for Richard to pass among his friends and coworkers. On the other hand, even Richard's persona had been twisted by Jim. So the question remained, as much as Jim wanted Sherlock well and capable and willing, just how much did he also want to hurt the detective? Just because Sherlock would likely not be killed at Jim's hands did not mean that he wouldn't walk away hurt.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, admitting the point. "You've controlled yourself, yes. Which is why we've even gotten this far. That has been, however, with an end goal in mind. You've played nice because you _had to_ , because you knew I wouldn't go along with everything if you didn't." Sherlock took in the angry set to Jim's mouth and the tension in his smaller body. "People behave differently once they've gotten what they've aimed for. I've no guarantee your control won't evaporate."

Jim _looked_ like he wanted to lose control. Something in him was wound tight, ready to be released. Whatever that thing was remained to be seen. The criminal bent his head and let a shiver run through his body and into Sherlock's. They were pressed together so tightly that Sherlock could feel everything, even between the cloth. Jim was hard already, ready and waiting. "And what kind of guarantee would you _require_?" he asked softly.

"There's very little I could demand that would ensure that you didn't hurt me, with you in the position of control." Ties could be slipped, limbs could be overpowered, weapons torn out of hands and turned against Sherlock. Even a gun had the possibilities of bad angles, or a ricochet, and Sherlock didn't want to accidentally kill Jim. Not even when he looked like this, feral and ready to snap at the slightest touch. A bond had been growing between them, and Sherlock no longer wished Jim safe merely to make sure his own life was preserved; Sherlock wanted Jim safe because he did not want him dead.

"A certain amount of trust will inevitably have to be involved at some level." Sherlock's gaze flicked down. "You can start by ending this attempt at power play through clothing. Strip everything off."

Jim's eyes crinkled. Sherlock had come to the conclusion of trust on his own. Every day, every hour, he spent in Jim's company he was sinking a little deeper. With their eyes still locked, Jim pulled back enough to remove his shirt. The knowing curve of his lips never faltered as he continued to undress. He bent over Sherlock again when he was finished slipping off his socks and trousers. He'd slipped something into the palm of his hand, something small and cold as it touched Sherlock's skin. Jim had pulled it out of his sock once before and so it wasn't a surprise when he pressed the folding knife into Sherlock's hand. Jim flicked it open. He took Sherlock's wrist and brought the blade to his own throat, leaning in close to the detective.

"I'll put my life in your hands if you let me do this. How is that for _trust_?" Jim hissed.

"You already do that," Sherlock answered with a small smile, even as another shiver ran up his spine. There was something potent and raw about having lured this deep, buried part of Jim out to the surface. Sherlock couldn't deny that even as it scared him into a measure of caution, it drew him in. It was the same taste for danger that had focused his interest on Sebastian, tantalizing enough to provoke him into experimenting.

 

Sherlock considered the blade in his hand and drew the flat across Jim's skin. "You'll have to be careful how you move. It's all too easy to have accidents with these." Even as he spoke, a temptation whispered in the back of Sherlock's mind. The knife moved, tip brushing against Jim's shoulder. A paper-thin line of red appeared, only to vanish beneath Sherlock's mouth.

Jim's back arched and he exhaled softly. With one hand he cradled the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him against his skin like Jim wanted him there. "Then you'll just have to be careful how you hold it." The words vibrated through Jim's throat as he laid Sherlock back down on the bed. He lifted himself so that he was kneeling over the long body below him.

Jim's fingers stroked down Sherlock's cheek. His eyes, in the low light and in the wave of his desire, were indiscernible from whole black irises. Even with the knife at his neck, he had Sherlock right where he wanted him. Jim knew it, and he took the time to revel in it.

Sherlock watched him cautiously and licked his lips. His own pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of grey remaining. Jim's touch was still pleasant, but Sherlock wasn't under any delusions - whatever affection Jim possessed for him wouldn't match what the average person would expect. That his fingers were gentle right now didn't mean they would remain so.

Sherlock let out his breath slowly. His ears were full of the sound of his own heartbeat, and a portion of his mind was flipping through memories of every bedroom homicide scene he'd ever had an opportunity to view. He kept the knife carefully tilted away and mirrored Jim's caress.

The glint in Jim's eye looked suspiciously, impossibly like he might have known what Sherlock was thinking. And then he dove in, mouth clamping over Sherlock's while his body rocked forward. His teeth gnashed at Sherlock's full lips and then licked at them soothingly. His breath came in deep burst of air. His hands roamed down Sherlock's hips, catching at the sharp points of bone jutting out and then massaging over his arse.

Sherlock looked something between frightened and excited as he lie pliant beneath Jim. He would jump minutely when Jim made a quick motion, or bit down a little too hard, but the criminal seemed to delight in it.

Sherlock was drowning in adrenaline and, to a lesser degree, endorphins. Jim's entire focus was pinned on him, intense and hungry as a starved animal. Sherlock couldn't tell when to expect tenderness or teeth, and this seemed to please Jim to no end. His body was tensed, fighting against the fight-or-flight instinct. Jim darted lower and Sherlock flinched as Jim's mouth covered his jugular; his mind helpfully supplied images of fatal wounds from animal bites. Sherlock arched up and ground their hips together.

Jim met him with his own and thrust back down, pushing Sherlock into the cushion below. The snarl he received was one of excitement and not reprimand, but it didn't ease the worries of Jim's teeth. His mouth edged over an old bruise and reawakened the pain hiding under its mottled green and blue surface. Sherlock flinched and Jim moved on, lower and over his chest.

The criminal moved in a flash. He broke away and snatched a bottle out of the small stand beside the bed before he returned to his position over Sherlock. He broke open the cap and squeezed a thick gel onto his fingers before he lifted Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock grunted and his lips curled into a grimace; the gel was freezing cold, and Jim had moved too quickly. Still, the small amount of experience he'd had with finger penetration made this easier - he knew the burning feeling would subside once he relaxed. If he _could_ relax. Sherlock was simply grateful Jim still seemed to have tight control over himself; if he'd lost himself, he wouldn't have had the presence of mind to go for lubricant.

Jim moved again, just enough that Sherlock caught a glimpse of his face once more, and Sherlock's breath caught.

His eyes were wide, on the edge of revenant as he looked at Sherlock, but held an intensity that was fearsome. Jim didn't look human. He looked like an alien creature with his dark hair mussed like that over his stare. People had often called Sherlock alien looking before. It had something to do with the slant and color of his eyes and his cold, detached persona. Jim was just the opposite. He could have been a demon sitting between Sherlock's knees, stroking and plunging first one, then two fingers inside him.

The sharp, too-bright blackness of Jim's stare was intimidating but also... beautiful. Sherlock reached up and grabbed a fistful of dark hair. Jim's fingers brushed past the point of intensity Sherlock remembered so well and his muscles clenched in response. Jim did it again and Sherlock's breathing began to acquire a ragged edge. A third finger joined the other two and Sherlock's jaw clenched against the discomfort.

"Can you imagine, Sherlock, just _how looooong_ I've wanted to see you like this?" Jim whispered. There was a strangely cruel edge to his tone. But it wasn't directed at Sherlock, not necessarily. It was directed at everything that had kept them apart for so long, the black hole that was his family and then the narcotics that had swallowed Sherlock up and hidden him away from the world. Jim seemed bent on being the next black hole to consume him. Finally, his thrusting fingers slowed, barely moving, but he dragged and massaged over that spot in Sherlock relentlessly.

Sherlock had been about to answer Jim when all of his attention was forcibly redirected. Sherlock writhed and cried out, twisting and trying to get away from the assault. Without any other sensations or pauses, the friction and pressure turned what had been pleasurable into something overwhelming and sharp, more painful than anything else. Sherlock's fingers tightened in Jim's hair and the knife edge drifted closer.

A rumbling laugh came from Jim, but he released Sherlock a moment later, allowing the man to breathe. "Absolutely stunning," he said, hovering over Sherlock. He coated himself with more of the gel, letting Sherlock get an eyeful as he did so. Jim wanted the detective to see every bit of this and remember it forever. His fingers teased lightly over Sherlock's entrance again, but held there, lining Jim up.

Long lashes descended for a moment over those dark eyes and Jim stilled. Long seconds passed before he said softly, "For as long as I've waited, I still get to be your first." And then he pushed forward.

Sherlock's frame clenched in response, uncertain whether to accept or reject the invasion. Fingers didn't compare to this; the stretch was still uncomfortable, but the hardness of bone was replaced by rigid muscle and velvety skin and a much more noticeable sensation of heat. Sherlock's mind provided the images that he couldn't see, matching up what he was feeling with what he knew was happening. Jim finally reached a point his fingers hadn't touched, a point that became painful. "S-stop," Sherlock breathed, releasing Jim's hair and reaching for his hip.

Jim did. His body, sinking into Sherlock's, halted. His chest shook with a breath, and he was now pressed to Sherlock there as well. His head fit into the crook of Sherlock's neck and his hands scrabbled at Sherlock's hair, fitting into the long locks and clutching tightly. Jim's body was as tense as a coiled spring. The slim muscles in his back and shoulders were taut with it, but he waited.

The seconds passed painfully slowly. Jim's hot breath on his neck and the quivering tension in his frame wasn't conducive to helping Sherlock relax, but eventually his body gave out. The knot inside him loosened and stopped fighting to push Jim out. Sherlock gave Jim's hip a squeeze in warning before he let his hand drift to the small of Jim's back. Sherlock's heels pushed against the bed and he tilted his hips.

Like water, Jim slid deep in one fluid motion until his hips pressed flush against Sherlock's. A guttural sound escaped his throat and the muscles in his stomach tightened. "I can feel your every move, every _twitch_ ," Jim gasped. "You're so tight." He held like that for a minute before he rocked back and forth, barely thrusting, just to get Sherlock used to the sensation of Jim's flesh sliding inside him.

Sherlock felt a bizarre sense of vertigo and clung to Jim in response. Even knowing the mechanics involved in penetrative sex hadn't quite prepared Sherlock for what it would actually feel like. There was a world of difference in being the other side of the equation. Most of the sensation seemed to come from the outside, skin pressed to skin and sliding against one another as Jim moved, but there was a pressure and heat that brought everything into the starkness of reality. Jim was _inside him_. Sherlock bit back a moan at the thought, only to get pinned once more by demonic black eyes. Jim's features didn't look so childlike and innocent anymore.

His brows were like the points of needles, set over razor sharp lashes and eyes made of ink. With his hands buried in Sherlock's hair, Jim turned his head so that he could stare at the man while his hips moved. They rocked together, Jim sinking deeper and pulling out farther with every thrust. He was all but trembling with the pressure, nearly as much as Sherlock, but he was being as gentle as he could for the moment.

Sherlock wasn't mistakable for the small child he used to be - the angles of his face were too sharp, but his eyes and hair remained much the same. Something between the two of them reconnected as their eyes met, much as it always did when Jim pressed their foreheads together. The roots reached deep, enough that flickers of thoughts were almost heard as whispers. Sherlock shifted and the angle changed at just the right moment, causing Jim to hit the perfect spot during one thrust and pleasure to jolt through him. His legs came up automatically and wrapped around Jim's waist, trying to recreate the angle again. The knife slipped from Sherlock's fingers in his distraction; they both heard the clatter as it hit the floor.

Time stood still. And then Jim thrust, matching the angle and massaging that spot again. His grasp tightened and he kissed Sherlock forcefully, but his eyes stayed open to watch. He began thrusting in earnest when he broke the kiss and pressed his head to Sherlock's. Jim's eyes bore into him, trying to stare into Sherlock's very core. "I know youuu," the criminal whispered, as though he was seeing Sherlock again for the first time. Perhaps he was, transporting and melding his memories of Sherlock past with Sherlock present and finding them to be the same. "And you're mine now. You'll always be…."

Coherent thought left Sherlock. Everything was flashes of images and sensation - fragmented lights glinting off the water of a pool, warm smiles, cold gunmetal, blankets and fencing swords and bloodied hands and, through it all, the same intent pair of dark eyes. Between the pleasurable rhythm of their bodies moving together and Jim's gaze, Sherlock felt like the smaller man had cracked him open and plunged his hands into the deepest part of him, seizing hold of who he was at the core of his being. He felt breathless and all too fragile, held in talons that could easily rip him apart and steal that tender piece for itself.

Jim's arms wrapped tightly around him. He sank into Sherlock again, and it was like he was sinking ever deeper, like Jim had figured out that he didn't need to rip Sherlock apart to find it. All he had to do was slip under his skin and Jim was right at home. He curled himself around Sherlock's beating, thrusting, pulsing heart, parted his lips for a taste, and took it into himself. Jim would eat that heart if he could, and swallow Sherlock whole. He pressed his hands to the temples of Sherlock's head, and with Jim's upper body still wrapped around him, stronger than he looked, it was difficult for Sherlock to move. Their foreheads came together and for a moment Jim lived inside of him.

A vice of fear clamped around Sherlock's heart; Jim was instinctually recognized as a predator and, unable to move, Sherlock's body tensed for the killing stroke. Jim's mouth was stealing away his breath and there was nowhere Sherlock could escape, no place to hide. Jim had found all of the darkest places within him and was already there, waiting in every corner. The smaller man took and touched everything, leaving nothing and no place unmarked. Sherlock could feel his mind being claimed even as Jim claimed his body, thrusts growing faster and rougher.

"I am you now," Jim breathed when their lips parted. Sherlock was gasping for air, frightened inside his own mind. "And I am the most dangerous thing you will ever know." Jim's speech came out broken the quicker he thrust, but he was moving just right to hit that spark inside Sherlock with every one. 

It felt corrupting. It also felt glorious, a mix of pain and pleasure that made Sherlock cling ever tighter, nails leaving track marks down Jim's back. Heat was pooling at the base of Sherlock's spine, growing with each thrust, but it wasn't enough. Sherlock growled in frustration and arched, desperate for friction. Feverish grey eyes met black. "...Jim." Sherlock's voice came in a rasp, unable to articulate in words what he wanted, but the thought passed between them.

Jim grinned in elation. They had their own language now, like twins. It was still in its infancy, but it would grow from momentary bouts of understanding to something strong between them. Jim wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock, thrusting in euphoria and matching the pace stroke for stroke.

His bed was large; they'd had to step up onto a platform just to reach it, but even it shook with Jim's fervor. He licked and bit at the lobe of Sherlock's ear, then over his jaw until he found his lips again.

Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut at the feel of teeth on skin, but opened as soon as Jim kissed him. Their minds locked together as thoroughly and intimately as their physical forms. Sherlock was close, so close, teetering on the edge of a spike of pleasure and Jim knew it. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim's shoulders and pulled him as close as he could. He could feel Jim's heartbeat, echoing his own.

Inside the palace of Sherlock's mind, the demon embraced him as he was now. Jim had materialized there solidly and their worlds came together. A dark edge creeped in at the corners of Sherlock's temple. Flashes of the pool came from another angle, this time watching Carl drown. The boy thrashed in the water before he went still and members of the crowd began to stand. Flashes of Sherlock as a boy, days later, outside the police station. With Jim's help, Sherlock's mind could see what he must have looked like from the other boy's perspective. The scene dissolved and strings of data flowed from Jim's veins into Sherlock's. They moved together, safely cocooned in a web of anonymity and loneliness.

All the while, Jim's body was coming apart in Sherlock's arms. His thrusts grew ragged, stuttering. He was not careful any longer, but he was not trying to hurt Sherlock either. He lifted Sherlock's hips and brought them together forcefully, stroking him swiftly all the while.

Sherlock jerked and cried out, spilling over Jim's hand. All Sherlock could see was the boy who'd appeared in his mind, twining their fingers together as they locked out the rest of the world. They didn't need the world, now, anyway - not now that they each had another that understood. They were the same. Sherlock held the other boy and a loneliness he had only been vaguely aware of began to lift.

Jim's mouth fell open. The immensity of what passed between them felt like the underbelly of an iceberg. Even though Sherlock had barely touched Jim's empire and had yet to set foot in the anonymous universe he'd created, they were one now, and they ruled it together.

Jim came in a breath, silently, his lips parted and his face contorted as if in a shout. Inside their minds, Sherlock could hear it. He strained and held there with one hand still wrapped around Sherlock, a steady pressure against his sensitive flesh, and the other buried in his hair. Jim remained buried inside him until he collapsed.

Sherlock caught him as he fell. Jim's pulse was still racing, a steady thumping Sherlock could feel against his chest and hear in his head. He curled around Jim's smaller frame, one hand stroking over his spine. Sherlock pressed a kiss to Jim's temple as his lover caught his breath. _I'm here._

A tremble ran through Jim's smaller frame. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's body and they sank into the bed together, just like they had been in their mindscape. Jim's hand found Sherlock's. What those hands had done, and will continue to do, didn't matter. Jim's hands pulled strings across nations. Sherlock's were a work of art. Jim turned his gaze from them and met Sherlock's eyes with heavy lids. _I am, too._ He seemed to say.

Sherlock crooked a small smile at Jim. Whatever had happened, it had pulled them closer yet. Jim's thoughts were easier to decipher, somehow. Sherlock closed the distance and claimed Jim's lips in another kiss. The fear had left him for the moment, and he now understood why Jim had dogged him to the ends of the earth and ripped him out of the tapestry of his old life. It was pointless to blame him; Jim had understood the pain it had caused, but he had been incapable of resisting. His presence on the earth had started a chase that could only have ended like this, or in death.

Any tension that had been left in Jim's frame dissolved. He relaxed, boneless against Sherlock and returned the kiss lazily. Sherlock understood now, and Jim could rest easy in that knowledge. Their legs twined together and when their lips parted, Jim laid his head beside Sherlock's and just looked at him. They might have been inside a vacuum. The only light in the room glowed softly beside the bed. The night around them was still, and the city was silent below.

Sherlock stared back, lazy and oddly content. He recognized part of that as being the afterglow, but it was more than just that. Jim was a warm weight at his side and a shadow in his mind. He saw a man staring at him but, underneath that, the boy he had seen. Sherlock wondered what that had been like, not having anyone else on the same level... and then finding someone, only for them to always be out of reach.

Jim reached out and traced his fingertips over Sherlock's temple, then down his cheek, across his brow, down his nose, and resting at the groove above Sherlock's lip. His gaze told Sherlock plainly that Jim wanted to touch him everywhere, but this would do for now. His fingers stroked over Sherlock's lips and down his chin, creating soothing tingles wherever they went. Jim relished this moment, having Sherlock like this in near solitude.

Sherlock was used to worshipful words from others, comments praising his wits and skills or expressing attraction to his physical features. Touch was something else entirely, more so when Sherlock was aware of the sincerity behind it. Jim had put him on a pedestal all those years ago, an unreachable, untouchable ideal, but now had figured out how to bring him down without breaking everything.

Questions hovered in the air between them, unspoken, and spilled out into Sherlock's touch as he let his hands wander and explore. There were empty spaces in the timeline that might never be filled. It was a frustrating thought, but a possibility that Sherlock might have to learn to accept. Sherlock's hands trailed down the small peaks and valleys of Jim's back and followed the curve of his arse. Upon reflection, Sherlock determined that he could live with the knowledge gap.

After a while, Jim's eyes drifted closed. This was possibly the most peaceful moment he'd ever had, all thanks to Sherlock. It was something that could not be recreated, not with anyone else, something that had been so long in coming that it could touch even Jim's cynical mind. In this brief span of time, he was at peace.

Jim curled his head into Sherlock's shoulder and his breathing evened out, his hands stilled where they rested against Sherlock's abdomen, and finally, he fell asleep.

Sherlock held Jim while he slept, only the second time he'd ever seen the man unconscious. Where previously all he'd been able to think about was how to use the situation to his advantage, to escape or enact revenge, Sherlock now marveled that he was permitted this at all. Jim's fearsome personality and drive receded with his consciousness, leaving a shell that seemed too small and fragile to ever house who and what he was. The room they were in only made the situation seem even more surreal - a private room in purgatory, complete with a personal incubus with a disarming face and form, sheltered away from the normal passage of time.

Sleep refused to come for Sherlock. The radical shift had left his mind with too many things to ponder, and his body was finally beginning to protest their earlier activities. He watched Jim as he slept and let his mind spin what threads it wished.


	11. Chapter 11

It was hours before Jim woke again, sometime in the middle of the night. He did so with a breath and a flutter of black lashes, and suddenly he was staring up at Sherlock. He'd tensed in the brief instant it took his eyes to focus on the dark haired figure hovering over him, but it was gone as soon as he saw. Jim stretched under Sherlock's hands. His body lengthened and pressed against the longer one at his side and he inhaled deeply the scent of _them_ , together.

"Morning, love," Jim purred.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the endearment, but he wasn't displeased. Certainly not after his lover had stretched into such tantalizing lines and curves, then moved closer.

And they were, now. Lovers. The word felt odd and new in Sherlock's mind, a descriptive title that he'd never thought would ever be applied to him. Technically they'd been engaging in sexual activities for the past few days, but it had never quite transitioned from a somewhat casual, experimental arrangement. "Morning. You seem to have slept well."

A feral smile pulled across Jim's lips. It couldn't properly be called morning yet, but Jim looked like he'd had enough sleep. He swung one leg over Sherlock and righted himself until he was sitting atop the other man. Jim leaned down, his back bending, body arching like a stretching animal, until he found Sherlock's mouth. The taste of him was still sweet in spite of having slept. He lingered there on Sherlock's lips, then sat back with his arms crossed over Sherlock's chest.

"I want you to play something for me," he said softly. "There's still a bit to do before Sebastian arrives to get ready for the show tonight, and I'd like you to play while I work."

Sherlock blinked, fighting against a dizzying spike of lust from the moment Jim climbed on top of him and graced him with a kiss. Jim's teasing about addiction wasn't entirely without merit. Jim's bare arse straddling his stomach wasn't helping matters, and Sherlock was having trouble thinking as his blood was swiftly diverted south. "That can be arranged."

Jim's smirk only widened. "On the other hand, we do have plenty of time." He shifted until he was pressing down over Sherlock's newly hardening cock. He walked his fingers down the line of Sherlock's chest, heavy lidded eyes following their path until they stopped just below his navel. "…no rush."

Sherlock's pupils had dilated as Jim moved back, shivering as his fingers came to a stop. "I imagine you've already been told, a good many times before, that you're a corrupting influence." Jim's devilish smile didn't falter, merely broke into a toothy grin as the smaller man shifted his hips. Sherlock's tilted in response.

"I may have…once or twice," Jim feigned modestly while he reached with one hand to grab for the bottle they'd used hours ago. This time when he spread the gel over his fingers, he wrapped them around Sherlock's cock. He coated it with languid strokes of his hand, watching Sherlock groan and arc under him to meet the friction. Jim was hardening without even having touched himself, delighted solely in watching Sherlock. Another glob of liquid and he lifted, reaching down and plunging his fingers into himself. He planted one hand on Sherlock's stomach for stability and let his head fall back.

Sherlock watched in breathless anticipation. The sight of Jim, arched and fingering himself, was too great of a temptation. Sherlock wasn't able to resist reaching out, one hand steadying Jim while the other wrapped around the man's cock. The pleased hiss that provoked made Sherlock's mouth curl in an answering grin. "I'm a quick study. I'd say you should be worried, but I'm not certain how much further you can be corrupted."

A breathless chuckle poured from Jim in response. "No, I really don't suppose so, but I'll enjoy it all the same." Jim pulled his fingers free after a few stuttering thrusts into Sherlock's hand. He repositioned himself above the other man. Their eyes locked. A wave of thoughts and emotion passed between their gaze, spoken in the set of their eyes, the minute expressions each wore, their breathing, their touch, their pulse. They had created a language of deduction that only the two of them could speak. With a coil of elation passing between them, Jim held Sherlock's cock under him, and sank down.

Sherlock grunted in pleasure as he slid in. His hips bucked, trying to meet Jim halfway. With Jim sitting above him, the smaller man had greater control of the speed and degree of penetration, and Jim was taking advantage of that fact. Sherlock's frustration was met with flickers of amusement as Jim kept the rhythm deliberately slow and teasing, his iron control restraining then both. Sherlock's hand briefly stilled and released Jim's cock, settling on his hips in warning; if he didn't stop teasing, there was going to be a fight for control.

Jim's eyes lit up. Sharp teeth broke his grin. He looked down at Sherlock and writhed his hips tantalizingly slow. He knew exactly what he was doing, sinking down only halfway before he rose again. Jim's whole persona shifted in the arc of his back and the taunting look in his gaze. It recalled the man who had relentlessly provoked Sherlock to chase him through all of London, only to disappear under his nose like a ghost. _Catch me if you can_.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed further and his grip on Jim's hips tightened. Resisting a challenge had never been his strong suit, even less so when success promised a desired reward. Sherlock's body tensed and he rolled them, pinned Jim beneath him. He snatched at Jim's wrists, trying to wrest control completely away from him. _Mine._ The thought reverberated in the air between them, mirrored by a possessive glint in Sherlock's eyes.

Jim's expression turned feverish with delight. He bucked his hips and met Sherlock's thrust and _finally_ Sherlock slid home. He was as deep in Jim as he could go. Jim bucked again after he pulled back and brought Sherlock in hard. The breath left him when Sherlock's hips met his, so deep that it must have hurt, but Jim didn't stop. He wrestled with Sherlock's grasp, hands curling into claws and scratching at the sinewy muscle in Sherlock's wrists, but with every thrust Jim met him halfway.

Nails raked across his skin in counterpoint to the pleasure. Jim had clawed his way into Sherlock's core and invaded his mind, and now that the smaller man was writhing beneath him all Sherlock could think about was claiming him in turn. He hissed and pressed Jim into the mattress, nearly bending his lover in half, his own nails cutting into Jim's skin. A dark smile touched his mouth; Jim could tap into a manic source of strength, but Sherlock was still taller and heavier, and he had the advantage at this angle.

Jim's eyes widened, but not in fear. " _Yesssss,_ " he hissed until the breath was forced out of him again. The light in the room disappeared in his eyes, sucked into their depths like Sherlock was being sucked into his body. Jim, taking him, _dominating_ him, but _Jim himself_ had become his only focus. Jim was taking everything he had, opening himself and letting Sherlock in to reach him, and feeding off of Sherlock's energy as he did so. That was why he was struggling to free his arms so. Once he'd wriggled one free, he threw it around Sherlock's neck and brought him down. Jim was curled under Sherlock's body, but now he had a hold of the man and intended to keep him there. 

Sherlock snarled, teeth catching lips and skin as Jim pulled him down. Jim had sparked a bottomless sort of hunger - Sherlock wanted to fuck him senseless, eat him alive, invade Jim as thoroughly as he'd been the previous night. What had been long hidden and carefully repressed for years, neglected until it was almost forgotten, had begun to surface. So much of his life had been rituals and diversions, keeping everything bound and sealed and within the boundaries of the safe, if perhaps not the respectable.

Sherlock touched their foreheads together and their gazes locked. He slipped into the darkness of Jim's mind.

They were together again. Jim wrapped himself around Sherlock, inside and out. This time, Sherlock didn't need to be comforted. He stood as solidly as Jim, tall and slender and deathly pale behind Jim's eyes. He was letting go. Jim could feel the restraints, the insecurities, and the world of Sherlock's past falling away from him.

Jim let Sherlock split him open. He _wanted_ him to. With a pained cry he tightened his legs around Sherlock's middle, and then pleasure spiked again. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair, just to keep their heads together and live out the ecstasy of Sherlock's lust and fury.

Sherlock trembled under the strain, only a few ties holding him back, thin as spider filaments. Jim was right in front of him, bare and willing, welcoming anything he wanted to give. It took an effort to remember, to not sink his teeth in too far. Copper blossomed on his tongue and Sherlock pulled Jim closer, phantom and physical, delving into his mouth and matching his thrusts. Jim was a drink of cool water when Sherlock had never realized he was dying of thirst, and every taste just left him wanting more.

The blood Sherlock had drawn mixed between their tongues, coppery and sharp as the burn of Sherlock's thrusts. Jim broke apart with a groan and threw his head back, but the motion only exposed his neck to Sherlock's teeth. He was standing on a precipice with Sherlock wrapped around him, pressure building deep inside and ready to tumble over the edge. Jim shuddered a gasp when teeth found his neck. His hips snapped up and his arms swung around Sherlock's neck and tightened like he was trying to strangle the taller man. And then Jim was coming in streams over his stomach, still bent in half. His voice echoed through the space between them like nails on chalkboard, heightening the strain in the space they shared all the way through his release. He took hold of Sherlock and the world turned upside down as he fell.

Sherlock wasn't far behind him, hips stuttering as the pressure built before he buried himself as deep as he could. Everything was Jim, inside him and around him, hot pulse on his tongue and cries in his ears. This was his, _his_ , never to be taken away or shared against his will, never to be bound by rules or society's delicate sensibilities. Jim was _his_ , his own private drug, his shadow, his playmate to help stave off the ennui and boredom of existence. Sherlock moaned against Jim's neck, shuddering as he reached completion and finally stilled.

The air grew silent but for their heavy pants. Each gasped for air against the other's skin. Finally, Jim's fingers curled in Sherlock's hair, breaking the stillness of the moment. He hadn't quite caught his breath yet, but he pulled back just enough to see Sherlock's face. Jim's eyes were glittering. He might have been the happiest man in the world.

Sherlock's frame shook for a moment in silent laughter. He'd come back to himself just enough to gain an awareness of their bodies. He shifted backwards, just enough that Jim's spine was no longer bent double, letting his lover breathe easier. Jim's lower lip still had a few droplets of blood, quickly licked clean. Sherlock looked sated and all-too-pleased with himself. "I could get used to mornings like this."

"There's a lot of morning left," Jim smirked. They were both exhausted, but it was true, the sun had hours yet to rise and with it would come Sebastian and one of Jim's little games. He unfolded next to Sherlock and stretched. His hair was an absolute mess. So was Sherlock's. They were also filthy. Jim pushed himself up on one arm. "Time best spent with a shower, I think."

"I suppose that means I have to let you up." Despite the tinge of disappointment in his tone, Sherlock rolled over and gave them both some space. The movement only brought his attention to the sticky feeling of his skin, coated with the collective effort of that morning and the previous night. Sherlock grimaced and passed a hand over his face, pausing as he felt the prickle of stubble. "Shower and a razor."

Jim's tinkling laugh echoed through the room as he made his way to the adjoining bathroom. He left the door open behind himself. Jim turned on the water and rolled his shoulders before stepping into the steaming shower. The sliding glass door was left open as well, and Sherlock could see everything. The first thing Jim did was tilt his head back under the spray and melt into it.

Sherlock _had_ been debating whether or not to retreat to his own rooms to wash and pull himself together in privacy, but the image Jim made was striking enough to derail his contemplation. The bruises, scratches, and bite marks looked even more decorative on water-slicked skin. Sherlock wondered how much his own body matched; he hadn't had a chance to look in the mirror yet.

Sherlock padded into the room, quietly closing the bathroom door behind him and stepping into the shower stall. Arms wrapped around Jim from behind.

Jim sighed into the touch. He was boneless in Sherlock's embrace. Jim leaned his head back on Sherlock's shoulder and ran his hands down his own torso, washing away the sweat and slick they had made. The welts and scratches Jim had made on Sherlock's forearms were visible where his arms crossed around Jim's chest. Jim bent his head and kissed the skin.

Sherlock held Jim and waited his turn. He felt lighter than he had for some time, some invisible burden partially lifted. They'd hurt each other and it hadn't mattered - it had just been one more expression of the bond between them. Reframed in that perspective, while Sherlock didn't doubt that Jim had acted from selfish desire, everything that he'd done also had an edge of caring. Jim had destroyed his old life to try to get Sherlock to embrace one that fit him better.

He still had regrets. John's ghost would never quite leave him, nor the guilt of letting Mycroft think himself alone in the world, no matter how much his bitter feelings towards his brother still lingered. Even so, pieces were beginning to slide into place in this new life. Thus far, Sherlock didn't regret his choice to return to the flat after his first night as a runaway.

Jim turned in his arms and lifted his hands to Sherlock's face. He stroked long curls back and brought him under the spray. When his eyes closed, Jim's fingertips drifted over them like the water droplets. His touch flowed down Sherlock's face, over his lips, his neck, his chest. Jim caressed the grime from his skin everywhere. It was cleansing and soothing and so very strange and new at the same time. Jim didn't do this with just anyone. Probably no one. Yet he seemed to fall into it with Sherlock naturally, letting him in when the little criminal would have bristled at anyone else.

Sherlock indulgently drank in the caresses. His fingertips worked a knot of tension between Jim's shoulder blades as soon as Jim stilled. Between his short stature and the way the water trailed dark strands of hair in his face, Jim wasn't at his most intimidating in the shower. Sherlock smiled and absently wondered if he had a taste for smaller men. Not that he had a large selection of examples to choose from, but it was a bit odd that the only two men that had provoked deeper emotions from him had both been a great deal shorter than he was. There was something endearing about the way they had to look up in order to meet his eyes.

Jim cocked his head and his gaze turned inquisitive. It took him a moment, but he soon seemed to realize the way Sherlock was regarding him, and then what was going through his mind. A slow, indulgent smile spread across his features. Jim leaned up on his toes. " _I know the feeling_ ," he whispered in Sherlock's ear. He might not have been referring only to the control he needed over every other person in his life, whether they knew it or not. After all, Sherlock had not always been taller than Jim. And then there had been the boy who'd been as close to Sherlock as Jim could get. He eased back down on his feet with one hand lazily stroking over Sherlock's spine. Somehow, Jim had enough duality in him to enjoy looking _up_ at Sherlock as well as down.

Sherlock answered Jim's smile with one of his own. He slicked Jim's hair back from his face, enjoying the way the angle only made his black eyes appear even larger. Sherlock didn't often feel a protective impulse for another human being - people were, in a way, unreal to him. They lived their lives and moved about, but were subpar computers or puzzle pieces that took up more space and infringed on one's time and attention more than a simple machine was capable of doing. Sherlock looked down at Jim and couldn't help but want to keep him hidden away. Safe. Unmarked by anyone but him.

"Careful," Jim cooed. "I'd think you're growing fond of me." He knew perfectly well that Sherlock was. They both did. But Jim was allowing him the pretense and the silence for the time being. Whether Sherlock chose to take it or not was his own decision. They both knew what had changed. Whether it was voiced didn't matter now.

"Don't be absurd. I'm just waiting for the right moment to strike," Sherlock murmured. He wasn't able to resist any longer, pulling Jim into an embrace. "The opportunity simply hasn't come up yet." Jim's eyes crinkled at the corners; they both knew it for the lie it was.

Jim leaned up again and brushed his lips over Sherlock's. "I'll be ready," he said softly.

Jim turned off the water when he was flat on his feet again. He grabbed a pair of towels off the rack and began to dry himself, handing one to Sherlock. Once again, his hair was left standing on end after the towel passed over it and he shook it out. If it hadn't been for the intentional look on Richard, it would have been quite possible that Jim simply didn't realize how ridiculous it looked.

Sherlock grinned, eying the gravity-defiant strands of hair as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. His own hair was limp from the moisture, too-long and hanging into his eyes, but all too soon it would shorten back up into its usually messy tangle of curls. He dried off with the conscientious, practiced movements of the vain. With a backward glance at Jim, Sherlock wrapped his towel around his waist and stalked off towards his own bathroom.

Jim emerged minutes later in a pair of pajama bottoms and a bathrobe, stretching as he walked to the kitchen. He made coffee while Sherlock was getting ready. Once he had a steaming mug at hand, he pulled over his laptop and set to work at the counter.

If the past few days had been at all indicative of Jim's usual work methods, he would be tuned out until he put the computer away. There had been a few times he'd engaged Sherlock in conversation while he was on a project. Usually it consisted of him talking at the detective at great length and precise detail while Sherlock considered Jim's work.

That was alright. Jim was still getting him used to his methods. Sherlock planting the bombs the day prior had been a first step.

Once Sherlock reached his bathroom, he wasted no time in getting rid of the offending stubble. He'd never cared for the way he looked with facial hair. As oddly as people tended to look at him during the best of times, any length of stubble only seemed to increase the number of furrowed brows and curious eyes that followed him.

Sherlock dressed from the small remaining stockpile of clean clothes, reminding himself once more that he needed to take some time in the near future to go shopping for new garments. He paused when he reached his dresser, closing the sock drawer and opening the drawer at the bottom. The oatmeal-colored jumper was still there, safely stashed away. Sherlock carefully removed it, feeling the lumps of the cable stitches, then raised it to his nose.

There was only the scent of soap and yarn and a faint mustiness from the prolonged damp the garment had endured.

Sherlock sat on the bed, staring down at the jumper in his hands. He could almost hear John's voice, see the mild expression on his plain features as he moved through 221B. It would be too early in the morning for John to be properly awake - Sherlock would have woken him, perhaps with his playing, perhaps by making too much noise downstairs with experiments to stave off the boredom. The wooden stairs would squeak just so, taking into account his weight and shortened stride, and then his flatmate would appear: all messy blond hair and dressing gown, snubbed nose crinkled in irritation. He wouldn't say a word, of course, merely cross the living room and-

The John in Sherlock's mind didn't continue on to the kitchen to make him tea and toast, as was his custom. He came to a stop in front of Sherlock, looking down at him accusingly where he sat, hazel eyes full of sadness and anger. Sherlock's mouth opened, but nothing came out. What could he possibly say? What use were words to the ghost of a man half a world away, now that he was dead and resurrected into a new creature with a monstrous, tainted heart?

"I'm sorry, John." The apology hovered in the color air for a moment and died. John would never know how sorry he was. All Sherlock could hope for was that he would move on, heal, perhaps settle down to a slightly less boring life than most people got.

Even that thought was painful. John had hated boredom and banality nearly as much as he did.

It was a good number of minutes before Sherlock's mind settled enough to leave his rooms, assisted by his favored poison. The distress hadn't left, but numbness was good enough for now.

When he found Jim, he was still clicking away at his laptop. He didn't look up right away, but his brows furrowed like he could read Sherlock's mood in his stride. And then Jim did look up, just to confirm what he was hearing. The criminal's expression didn't change, but he had to have noticed that the Sherlock who had wandered upstairs left on a slightly different note than the one who returned. Jim regarded him and then turned back to his work. He didn't seem thrilled, but Rome wasn't built in a day, and Jim was a patient man.

Sherlock wandered over to the sofa. His violin case was still where it had been abandoned the previous night. Sherlock picked it up and began prepping the instrument, watching Jim without ever looking directly at him. Their sense of each other had improved with their increased familiarity; even with the lack of overt reaction, Sherlock could tell that Jim was... disappointed. Much as Jim had probably been able to read him even with the care he took to hide telltale signs, Sherlock realized with dismay. The connection was going to make it more difficult for them to hide anything from one another.

Jim's attention did, however, flicker to him as he brought the bow to the air. Jim didn't move, didn't turn, didn't even look at Sherlock, but the shift in his attention was like a shift in the very air of the room. Sherlock was satisfying his request, and doing so without complaint. Even with the chemically induced detachment Sherlock possessed since he'd descended the stairs, Jim had a suspicion that whatever demons he'd entertained had been left up there with the rest of his things. They'd simply worn him out.

Sherlock paused, searching for a strand of emotion, something to begin with. One of the complications of dulling his emotional responses was that it made it more difficult to improvise. Famous compositions could be played by rote, the requisite tones faked enough to be passable, but playing from the core was a challenge when he'd shut and barred the door.

Sherlock began playing bits and pieces of other composer's works, cutting each off before they'd truly begun and throwing the shreds into the beginning of the next. The result was a bit manic and disjointed, but it worked.

It got a slim raised eyebrow from Jim, but the way he listened, his posture, even the rhythm of his typing, was curious. Gradually, with the sporadic pieces of music filling up the space between them, Jim's mood lifted. It was strange how Jim could influence the ambience of the room with nothing but silence. It was a complete contrast to Sherlock's violin. The musician was not playing to a wall. Slowly, Jim radiated intrigue with his mere presence. Still, he did not take his eyes from his work.

The strange juxtaposition of other people's melodies got Sherlock what he needed. He caught a faint thread of emotion and followed it down the rabbit hole.

The melancholy that Sherlock had displayed on previous nights was conspicuously absent, as was the dark rage that made the violin strings grate in accusation. Quick, frantic notes alternated between calm, melodic drifting, all set in an atramentous mood that was more seductive than gloomy. Sherlock's eyes had gone unfocused as his attention retracted entirely to the instrument in his hands and the sounds in his head.

Jim's hands stilled on the keyboard. Just like that, he was rapt. He had not yet heard Sherlock play like this. Idly, he wondered if anyone had. It was on the verge of something. Jim could feel it. Sherlock was picking up new threads and spinning them into his sound, threads that echoed the dark harmony resonating within Jim.

The criminal's fingers curled, resting against the keys. His eyelids drifted low as he focused on the music. Jim went perfectly still.

The manic interjections became rarer as the minutes passed, ripples that smoothed out until it became something like a waltz. The melody became full of double stops and alternations, giving the impression that Sherlock was playing a duet with himself. Trills became interspersed throughout - one voice calling to its mate, hearing an answering echo in response. The two gradually merged at the end, briefly changing to a major key before fading out.

Sherlock lowered his bow and stared out the window at the city awakening below.

Jim, who had been resting with his hands folded together, watching Sherlock, rose from his seat.

"Was that for me?" he asked, even though the answer was obvious. He joined Sherlock at the window. The sky was lightening with the barest halo of sunlight. Jim rested his shoulder against the pane of glass and looked down below.

They had a great view. Being so close to the park was worth the price tag. All they could see of the street at this hour were headlights and street lamps and the dark, moving dots of people below. But the city, the line of trees, the array of lights, the clouds in the sky rising overhead, was beautiful.

"You asked me to play." Sherlock's response was simple, almost monotone - it didn't need to be said. He glanced briefly at Jim's silhouette against the brightening sky. Sherlock didn't play such things for just anyone. It was too personal, a glimpse too far in for it to be considered with most people, but Jim had already crossed far beyond that line.

Jim smiled, pleased with himself…and with Sherlock. His gaze remained on the city below, just enjoying the knowledge that even though the other man continued to wander, he was coming back in small ways.

From the far side of the apartment, the elevator chimed and heavy footfalls strode across the floor to reveal Sebastian, bundled against the cold with a thick jacket and laden with a heavy pack over his shoulder. Jim turned as he tossed the pack onto the marble table and divested himself of his coat.

"Ah, Moran. You're early," Jim said, unreadable to the blond. "Naturally, we've been up for hours."

Sebastian's frosty eyes swept between them, noting the new signs of their coupling, but this time he seemed less distressed. He inclined his head with a shrug, opening the pack. "Just don't fall asleep on me tonight."

"Ah, that's right. Jewelry theft, wasn't it." Sherlock made a pretense at considering the subject, a hint of a smile gradually tugging at the corners of his mouth. The concept brought to mind a lithe criminal in a cat suit, not a muscular, scar-striped man more suited for spec-ops strikes. "I hope you're fastidious about timing. The bombs were set on a precise schedule."

"Don't you worry about me." Sebastian curled his lip. Jim's eyes flashed at him, and he moved on without further comment. "We all set up?" 

Jim rolled with his back against the window, casually resting his hands in his pockets as he smiled at Sebastian. "Absolutely. Thanks to our dear Sherlock…." He glanced to the man at his side before pushing off the glass. "Come, we'll fill you in on the details. Timing will be essential." 

Jim led them into the living room where they gathered supplies and laptops and laid the plan out for all to see. Sherlock outlined the timing until it was drilled into Seb's head, as well as the path he would have to take, how close the police were likely to be, and several routes he could use as backup plans if he were headed off by unforeseeable circumstances. The sun rose steadily behind them as they worked into the day. They went to scout locations and Seb needed to familiarize himself with the route. By the time they deemed the plan solid, the sun had set once again. 

"I'll be accompanying you to the location to start things out. The roof will have the perfect vantage point to make certain the first two bombs have gone off and the authorities are responding the way we've planned it. I'll contact you should we need to change the route you need to take. Once you have the goods and take off, I'll sneak out of the building. We'll meet back here once you've ditched all pursuit." 

All three men had arrived back at the flat to prepare for the heist. Sherlock and Sebastian both needed to clean up and get into garb that would blend with the rest of the auction guests. The detective paused on the stairway to his room. "It goes without saying that while we're there, we don't know each other. If we need to communicate, it will be through ear pieces."

Seb nodded once in acknowledgement before heading off to the downstairs bathroom to change. The bodyguard cleaned up well. When he emerged, he was wearing the required black suit and tie, pristinely groomed with his hair slicked back, blond darkened under the gel. His skin was dark with the sun, deepened high in his cheeks and it made the ice blue of his eyes stand out all that much more. Even Jim, sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop gave him a smirk and an appreciative glance. Seb was going to fit right in, but he'd have to work to disappear in a crowd. 

Sherlock was going to have an equally difficult time. An otherworldly air clung to him as he descended the stairs. With the crisp lines of his suit and his curls tamed and smoothed with gel, Sherlock's cheekbones and almond eyes stood out all the more. He was a study in contrast, pale skin and eyes set into a black framework. The detective tugged at his cuffs in discomfort - he'd never been much of a fan of layered formalwear. He didn't feel elegant and impressive. He felt overheated and fettered. "Ready when you are."

Sebastian's eyes lingered on him from across the room, but it was Jim who rose and went to Sherlock with a widening smile pulling across his lips. He slinked up to the tall man, not stopping even when he breached Sherlock's personal space, and with a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, pulled him down for a kiss. Jim was obviously very pleased with the outcome of Sherlock's efforts. It was written all over him when they pulled apart - pupils blown wide, the upturn at the corners of his mouth, the way he couldn't stop drinking in every subtle change in Sherlock's features. "And I'll be ready when you get back." 

Seb had walked up behind Jim, still at a respectful distance. He watched them with only mild annoyance. "Ready." 

Sherlock nodded and turned to walk with Seb. Both men had seemed impressed on a visual level, which gave him a bit of confidence, but Sherlock would still have to play the crowd. _Boring._ He'd had enough of dancing around the pitfalls of social niceties and small talk, pretending to be kind to mediocre minds, when he'd been little and forced to attend the events expected of a prestigious family. He'd cultivated a reputation for oddity partially by accident, but partially on purpose so as to avoid such affairs. 

The detective gave Jim one sharp, backward glance as he and Seb stepped into the lift. The message was clear - Sherlock felt that Jim owed him for this, and he intended to collect later.

The little criminal just stood there, smiling from ear to ear, and waved with his fingers before the door slid shut on them. 

They descended in silence. Judging by Sebastian's posture and the level of tension in his back, he had already cast aside whatever annoyance he'd felt for Jim's attentions to Sherlock and was running through the upcoming events in his mind's eye. When he wanted to be, the man could be absolutely focused. They hit the bottom floor and the door chimed open again. They moved forward as one, but would have to part ways from there on out. 

"I'll see you there." Sherlock paused as they exited the front door. "I'll alert you if I spot anyone or anything we weren't expecting. Remember to keep an eye on the time. Things will progress whether you are ready or not." With that, Sherlock strode away. He'd take a separate cab to the location and arrive at a different time. The most he and Seb would see of each other would be glimpses across the room.

Seb nodded and kept walking, knowing that would be enough for Sherlock to see he'd heard. Since the bike was waiting for him in the alley of the auction house, the blond found a cab on the street. Pulling up on motorcycle would draw too much attention, and Jim was unwilling to let Seb walk around with mud stains on his suit from the drive there. 

With the midnight hour coming closer, the city teamed with a new quality of life than it did during the day. Just as busy as ever, the business crowds had been replaced with night clubbers and couples. Times Square was lit up and a crowd drew around Christie's for the upcoming auction. 

Sherlock walked a fair distance to hail a cab, then instructed the driver to drop him a short ways from Times Square. He was counting on Sebastian taking his cab right to the door, more or less, and the extra distance would eat up sufficient time so that their arrivals were not too close together. 20 Rockefeller Plaza wasn't as impressive, externally, as some of the other buildings in the district, but nobody came to Christie's to admire the architecture. Exclusive treasures were the draw, both in private sales and auctions attended by the social and financial elite. Sherlock looked the part when he approached the service staff, and they let him enter without fuss, directing him to the correct showroom.

Sherlock was nervous, but hid it well. The hallways inside the building were far more open and stark than he'd remembered from the briefing. The tension only began to leave his frame a bit when he arrived at the correct room and encountered the rest of their guests.

He caught a glimpse of the blond head of a man with impressive height moving on the other side of the room. Sebastian looked perfectly at ease, wandering through the crowd. There were catalogs available for items in the current auction that had been on viewing several weeks prior and he'd picked one up. He spoke with others in the crowd with ease, a brief comment that turned into a casual conversation before he broke off and moved on. There was time enough to mingle before they were expected to find a seat for the auction to begin. As expected, the lights were low enough that moving from one side of the room to the other would not be easily noticed, but security watching the doors. Seb would have to take one of them out at least, without notice, and move quickly from there. 

Sherlock took one of the catalogs and walked the room, avoiding polite conversation unless absolutely necessary to maintain his cover. The bulk of his focus was on scanning the room for anything unexpected - extra security personnel they hadn't accounted for, inconvenient hidden cameras, electronic alarms. Sherlock was trapped into an exchange with an older couple for several aggravating minutes. Both of them had been quite keen on becoming acquainted with new faces, and the wife had been taken with his appearance and his accent. The fact that she was scouting for possible dates for her daughter was exceedingly transparent. Sherlock only manage to slip the conversational noose by promising to talk to them both at the after-party once the auction was concluded.

A few more minutes of wading through the crowd and Sherlock escaped the room. He located the stairwell and began his ascent to the roof. "Nothing unexpected in the showroom. I'm heading up."

"Good," came the soft reply from Seb in his ear. Jim, the third participant in their secret conversation, only yawned. Loudly. "Ten minutes and I'm moving," Seb added. Guests were slowly filing into their seats as the auction was set to start. The lights dimmed even more, a cue to the crowd to hurry along. Sebastian found one near the back and waited. Finally when everyone was seated, the auctioneers came out and the show began. Before they could get very far along, Sebastian began to check his pockets, appearing as though he'd lost something. 

Sherlock rushed up the steps to the rooftop. A few minutes were spent disabling the alarm and picking the lock, and then he was outside, looking out over the metropolis. The city thrummed with nightlife, lit-up and flickering. So many people rushing around, physically close together but never touching. They might as well have been in different dimensions, for all they would interact with each other - different social rungs and lifestyles all taking up the same space in so many layers.

A few minutes later a boom echoed through the city streets. A plume of smoke began rising toward the sky, accompanied shortly thereafter by a chorus of sirens. Below him, the traffic paused and changed its flow. "First has detonated. Response seems normal thus far."

" _Gooood_ ," Jim drawled, already waiting for the next phase. 

Seb couldn't answer, but he made to rise, apologizing to the woman next to him and headed for the door. Congenially he moved to the security guard, speaking softly with the man and moving out into the hall. Sequestered away in the showroom, the patrons of Christie's never heard the bomb, nor the conversation the handsome blond man had with the security guard as he left. They were equally none the wiser when the two disappeared. 

Traffic parted, and squad cars rushed by towards the first bomb, accompanied with two fire trucks. The car had been parked close to an older building. Judging by the sharp increase in smoke, the fire must have spread. "Extra concentration at the first site due to building fire. Second in approximately three minutes. Optimum exit time will be five-to-ten minutes after that."

"Understood," came Seb's hushed reply. He'd taken out the security guard and moved the body into an empty stall in the restroom. He would have just enough time until the others noticed his absence, and just enough time to break into the upper floor. The items for the night's auction were heavily watched and separated in a room below, the necklace he wanted was scheduled for a show the following week, another benefit to striking tonight during the show itself. Casually, he washed his hands and looked in the mirror. No bloodstains. Jim would be pleased. 

Sherlock waited just long enough to watch the second explosion go off without a hitch. Or at least, presumably - the distance was too far to see anything other than the second smoke plume. Given the way that echoes from sirens filled the air afterwards, things were going as planned. "Second has gone off, expected response. I'm leaving. Further detonations every seven minutes. Good luck."

With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way back down the stairs to the original floor, then walked to the lift. It wouldn't do to be spotted running down the stairwell when none of the other guests knew about the explosions yet, or the fires. 

"Police response is good," Jim confirmed. 

"Going in," added Sebastian. 

Sherlock was on the street and pulling away in one of Jim's cars by the time alarms went off inside the building. Seb would be heading out of the back, where they'd stowed his bike, any minute now. Sure enough, his voice sounded seconds later. 

"On the street, moving out." There was the definite rev of an engine under him. 

"Watch out for potholes!" Jim sang before he added. "NYPD got the call from Christie's, one squad car diverted to your location. Pitiful." But his voice was filled with glee. 

The drive was slow going. Even with a good idea of where traffic would be stalled or diverted and staying away from the possible routes Seb might take, this was New York City during the prime hours of nightlife. Vehicular transportation was rarely quick and smooth even at the best of times. Sherlock stopped at yet another queue in front of a stoplight. At this rate, Sebastian and he would probably arrive back at the flat at nearly the same time. Seb might have had further to go in order to evade pursuit, but he was also on his bike and able to squeeze through traffic.

He could see in a straight shot for blocks down in either direction and suddenly, far east, a lone motorcycle flew through an intersection with three squad cars tailing it before they disappeared from view. When his light turned green, another block down found two of the three cars overturned at the intersection and smoke and debris pouring out of a third. Seb had timed that bomb perfectly.   
"Ha- _ha!_ " the ex-colonel crowed in his ear. 

Sebastian would have to turn and detour around several more blocks to follow the path and prevent the cops from anticipating his destination, but the time it would take would allow Sherlock to get ahead. 

"Your bombs have them baffled, my dear," Jim purred in Sherlock's ear. He was monitoring their communications and giggling profusely. 

"When did I become 'dear'?" Sherlock muttered. He ignored the laughter that followed his complaint.  
Sebastian had gotten the more thrilling role for this job. Gratifying as it was to have everything go off without a hitch, Sherlock couldn't actually _see_ it happening. The detective had known that a goodly portion of his role would involve slogging through the streets in order to get back, but he'd already had enough of driving through New York from the setup he'd done earlier. "You owe me when I get back. Seb gets a wild ride while I'm stuck staring at bumper plates and pedestrians."

"Oh I do, do I? I _might_ be able to think up something suitable. Now hurry along and you can watch the fireworks with me." Jim's giggling eventually tapered off. For him, this was a routine job, as uneventful as one of Sherlock's easy cases would have been for the detective. What made it for the criminal was Sherlock's presence. 

"If anyone still cares," Seb interrupted, "I've just passed another firetruck and three cops, heading opposite." Once he lost the last one on him, he was as good as free. 

"Yes, good." Envy and irritation mixed together. Sherlock understood that this was all a normal job for Jim and Sebastian, but Jim's teasing manner was getting to him. It _wasn't_ routine for Sherlock, and he'd expected something a bit more... thrilling than this. Participating was barely an improvement to sulking in the apartment.

An idea crept into Sherlock's mind as he drove, slowly but surely, back towards the flat.

He arrived well before Sebastian, who was intent on flying by every bomb precisely as it went off, using the very last one to take out the final squad car. He hollered in triumph when he was clear and Jim confirmed that he was free. The police and fire department were far more concerned with the attack and injuries on the streets. Jim even held the radio to their communications for a moment to let Sherlock and Seb enjoy the panic. 

Sherlock parked the car where they'd planned, then took out his earpiece and stuck it in his pocket. He knew the route Sebastian would take to get back to the building. The detective walked at a leisurely pace, working his way down to the parking garage rather than up to the penthouse like Jim was expecting. Careful not to crease his jacket, he settled against the wall and waited.

It wasn't very long before the rumble of a motorcycle preceded Sebastian's arrival. The man, looking the picture of a contradiction dressed in his fine suit atop the sleek Ducati. Upon seeing Sherlock, he eased to a slow, pulling up in a parking space in front of the detective before removing his helmet. He too plucked the earpiece from his ear. 

Sherlock pushed away from the wall and stalked toward the bodyguard. He didn't have a firm plan in mind, merely a collection of impulses: a desire to not blindly follow Jim's wishes to the letter, a wish to taste a bit of the danger that had passed him by that night, and to make his own reward rather than wanting for Jim to dole one out. And, if he was honest with himself, envy played its part. Sherlock didn't know how possessive Jim might be after the previous night, and it was a button he couldn't quite resist pressing. "Did you have fun?"

Seb raised a brow at him curiously. He could see the intent in Sherlock's poise, his stance, his piercing eyes, but Sebastian could not see why. He swung a leg over the bike and climbed off, squaring his stance while he removed his gloves and considered the detective. "Very much."

"You still sounded like you were slighted, even though you got the better role." Sherlock knew _why_ , knew that Jim merely didn't want to risk him in mad chase through the streets, but logic didn't nullify his bitterness. "I spent hours slogging through miserable New York traffic to set up your joyride."

Sherlock had stepped close as he spoke. The chase through the streets had left its mark on Sebastian - he was windblown and a bit rumpled, no longer pressed and sleek and ready for a social gathering.

His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, but the corner of his lip turned up. Sebastian was still clearly uncertain what Sherlock was up to, but, still high on the thrill of the chase, he couldn't help but react to the subtle insinuation of another obstacle. One that, depending on Sherlock's mood, could potentially be very fun. "So what you're really saying is we both got swindled." 

"And neither of us is going to get an appropriate reward for work well done. I suspect Jim will just get more of what he wants." Sebastian was still alert, but he was listening. Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile of his own. His hand wandered, carefully, into Seb's pocket in search of the stolen prize. "Don't tell me you aren't angry about that."

Seb's smile widened. His brow raised farther. "And what do you plan to do about it? Lead a coup? Or…." The man leaned into Sherlock, brushing against him. He had by no means forgotten the weight in his pocket, but if he didn't feel what Sherlock was doing, he simply interpreted the man's closeness another way. "make a little fun of your own?"

"You've got the right idea. We don't necessarily have to wait for Jim to be in an indulgent mood and throw us scraps. I'm sure he's already irritated I haven't joined him promptly." Sherlock's fingers closed around the necklace.

Seb shifted and all at once his body stiffened. A hand as large as Sherlock's clasped over the detective's. Sharp blue eyes darted to icy ones, but the man didn't move. He was all hard edges, locked with Sherlock, pressed close, one hand in his pocket and one over it. "What _exactly_ do you have in mind?" Seb whispered. 

The necklace had been too heavy to lift without Seb noticing. Of _course_ it had been. Sherlock felt a thrill race up his spine and send his pulse pounding. "I _was_ planning on leading you both on a merry chase, but it appears you've preemptively caught me."

Seb was grinning now, catching on. "Doesn't mean I can't still chase you." His eyes sparked with mischief. "Might even be better to have a man on the inside, don't you think?" He could appreciate a good game, and the idea of more was a very strong lure for Sebastian. The man had, by then, accepted that Sherlock would not run, not really. He'd hand a dozen opportunities already. 

"Give me a few minutes head start and we'll have a bit of fun." Seb was strongly considering it; Sherlock could see the moment his interest caught. Sebastian was, by nature, a predator, and all predators enjoyed hunting. "Something to make the night a little more interesting than a straight-up heist."

Slowly, Seb removed his hand and instead placed it at Sherlock's hip, drawing the man closer still, enough to grind together. The detective could quite literally feel him growing excited with every passing second. "Just make sure the cops don't catch you first. Hate to have to break you out of jail, too." He smirked and stepped back, tossing his keys to Sherlock. 

Sherlock's smile split into a grin. "I'm not that careless. Give me three minutes' head start, then try to track me down." Sherlock swung a long leg over the Ducati and stuck the key into the engine. "You might want to alert Jim to the fact I have sticky fingers," he added. The motorcycle turned, the engine revved, and Sherlock took off back into the night. There was no plan.

Sebastian was laughing, long and hearty, as he left. The gunman stuck the earpiece back in his ear. "Hey Jim? We got a problem." 

The criminal waiting up in his tower was fuming by the time he heard from Seb. With no response from either of them, Jim had been cursing a storm through the connection. He'd been able to see them dawdling in the parking garage, but had no idea what was being exchanged between the two. " _What did you do?_ " Jim snarled. 

Seb leaned back on the wall, counting down time on his watch. "Well…you're not going to like this. I need another bike."

Sherlock laughed, just reveling in the night air and the city flying past him. Sebastian would have an easy hunt, as Sherlock didn't want to get too close to where the bulk of the police force would be concentrating their attention , but he'd get to have a bit of fun, and that was all he really wanted. To show Jim that, while he might be compliant to a certain degree, he wasn't controlled, wasn't predictable. Getting to tease Sebastian and get chased was just an added bonus.

It hadn't taken long for Sebastian to find a suitable alternative, and though Sherlock had gotten more of a head start than he'd asked for, Jim did still have him on GPS. The Suzuki Jim snagged for him on such short notice was in no way comparable to Sherlock's bike, but they were still on the streets of New York, not flat out racing, and Sebastian had the practice. Very soon, Seb's familiar figure showed up in Sherlock's mirror. 

Jim's voice rang through their connection. "Sherlock, _honey_ , if you can hear me know that you've been a very, very naughty boy."

"Yes, and?" Sherlock grinned and gunned it, breaking traffic rules enough to take a makeshift shortcut down a side street. "What're you going to do about it? Don't tell me you told dear Seb where I was. That's cheating." A glance in the mirror showed him that the bodyguard was still on his tail. Sherlock was limited in what he could do without drawing a sort of attention none of them wanted. The game had a predetermined ending.

"Oh _come now_. 'All's fair' and all that. What exactly do you hope to gain from this, really? All just to make me angry?" He didn't sound it, but Jim was very annoyed at the sudden detour in his plan. 

"Wouldn't make him mad, boss, he might ditch that rock," Seb warned, voice cool as ever. 

It only turned Jim's wrath on him. "If _he_ loses it, Sebastian, _you_ will be the one to pay."  
"It's not his fault he wasn't paying enough attention to his pockets," Sherlock shot back. "He _is_ a blond. I'm told such things are expected." Another twist, another turn, and Sherlock looped back into the opposite direction. "Look at it this way: your pet doesn't get enough attention and exercise. A run like this will do him good."

"When I catch you, you're gonna pay for that one," Seb shot back. He was quickly interrupted by Jim. 

"If _either of you_ scratch that necklace _I will have your hides!_ " They could tell the man was pacing, probably still atop the Upper East Side apartment. 

Seb revved his engine harder to come up alongside Sherlock, riding the median of the street and grinning wildly at him. 

"You're assuming you'll catch me." Sherlock grinned back. It was all part of the game, which was reaching its end. Seb was too close now, unlikely to be shaken unless Sherlock did something truly dangerous. Sherlock wasn't willing to risk life and limb for the sake of a cheap thrill. They rode neck and neck, Seb hemming him in through close proximity and forcing him down a side alley that turned into a dead end. Sherlock circled the bike around and stopped.

Sebastian's skidded to a stop in front of him. " _Got him_. See you when we get back, boss," he growled into the earpiece, ripping it from his ear before Jim could protest, which he certainly did. As soon as it was free, he launched himself at Sherlock, grinning wide with a feral gleam in his eyes. 

Sherlock scrambled to get off the bike and put the machine between himself and Seb. They had a few moments where they moved like children, tensed and circling each other around a barrier, darting and feinting and trying to catch the other in a wrong move. Neither of them had any illusions about where this was going. There was only one way out of the alley.

Sherlock made a mad dash for it anyway.

Seb saw his move and dove, catching him around the waist and taking them to the ground. The dirty, oil streaked ground. Jim was going to be furious they'd scuffled in a back alley. Seb on the other hand, was elated. He crawled up the wriggling Sherlock, avoiding long limbs that struck out at him with no small amount of experience before they were face to face. He grinned down at the man beneath him and pressed his weight into Sherlock. "Gotcha."

Sherlock let out a breathy laugh. Both of them had enjoyed the chase, brief as it had been. "To the winner goes the spoils, I suppose," he muttered in mock aggravation, rolling his eyes. "Right pocket. If I find out you cheated and let Jim tell you where I was, I'm going to be disappointed."

Sebastian laughed in return. "Don't worry, all I had to do was follow the startled pedestrians." His deft fingers dipping into Sherlock's pocket, found the necklace, but slid deeper, pulling the fabric and brushing over his crotch. Seb had such a self-satisfied grin when he squeezed, just enough to get Sherlock's rapt attention. "Think maybe you deserve a little something for giving me such a good time." 

Sherlock couldn't stop his spine from stiffening at the touch. The reflex was automatic, nerves firing and body responding instinctively. More importantly, one look at Seb's expression and he didn't want to resist. "Oh?" Seb's grin widened, and Sherlock's gaze was drawn to that impossible row of teeth. It was a smile that seemed too wide on a human and more at home on a shark. The bodyguard's thoughts were close to the surface and didn't need to be said. "...poor choice of location for such things."

Seb reached up and plucked the earpiece out of Sherlock's ear, tossing it aside. His grip never loosened, just shifted, rubbing over the shaft when he pushed his hips into Sherlock's. "Then what do you say we take this back up to Jim's ivory tower and show him what you _really_ wanted tonight?"

"I think he'll be more of a mind to try to punish me than reward me. Or try to, anyway." Which brought to mind a whole other idea. Sherlock tilted his head and examined Sebastian with a critical eye. He'd always had a taste for rebellion, but he was uncertain just how far Seb's loyalty could be pushed. "...he can't really stop us and punish us for the delay if his hands are tied."

A stillness came over the man atop Sherlock. He was really considering it. Already Seb had gone so far as to cut off Jim's communication more than once, but that was a far cry from tying his boss up. 

"…not now, he can't. But we'd have to untie him sometime." And Seb knew just how long Jim could hold onto a grudge. He'd always thought, before Sherlock, that if he ever had the nerve to do anything like that to Jim, then he'd better be good and ready to end it before the man got free. 

Sherlock read between the lines. "You think he'd take it out on you later." The detective was fairly certain he was safe from the worst of Jim's ire, but Seb wasn't on such secure ground. Sherlock's expression sobered. "Even if I was the one who did it?" The alternative would be to pique his interest in such a way that he didn't object. 

"He might object less if he got to watch." 

"He might object less if he got to participate," Seb countered, "but you'll have to be the one to do it." It would be a very fine and dangerous line they'd be walking, but if they could make Jim just happy enough, then they might be able to pull it off. Seb would have loved to be the one to carry it out, Sherlock knew that already, but the gunman wasn't an idiot. Jim could handle Sherlock tying him up, with enough persuasion. He would very likely murder Sebastian. 

"Well. I was already up for a challenge tonight," Sherlock mused. "Let me up and let's get back. We'll see where things progress from there." 

Sherlock was fully expecting Jim to be furious when they returned to the flat. Flexible as the criminal was, he hadn't been expecting Sherlock's rebellious streak to pop up again. Perhaps he thought that, now that he'd been convinced into staying and started to give a little, Sherlock would be more willing to toe the line.

Seb gave him a half crooked smile before he moved off. Once he was on his feet he caught Sherlock's wrist and pulled the man up without much effort. Sherlock may have been closer in height than most people, but he was a great deal lighter. If Seb ever got Jim under him, he would be tiny. 

The necklace went back snug in Sebastian's pocket and they both retrieved their bikes, setting back off into the night. 

The ride back to the flat was more orderly, if not much more leisurely. Both men knew that Jim was already impatient, and the longer they delayed, the angrier he was likely to be. They parked the bikes in their reserved stall, then entered the lift together. Sherlock brushed at the dirt and stains his suit had gotten in their alleyway scuffle. All in vain, for the marks stubbornly stayed put. 

The lift chimed, the doors opened, and Sherlock walked out to face whatever tempest was waiting.

Jim, standing at the window far across the open apartment, whirled. He descended on them like a bat from Hell, dark suit and arms flung out at his sides completing the image. "And just where the fuck did you _think you were going?_ " His voice echoed through the silence, reaching an incredible screech at the end. "What? A _joy ride_?" He landed directly in front of the former detective, a full head shorter but brash enough to make up for the difference with his head cocked jerkily to the side and eyes narrowed, glaring up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock was absolutely shameless. With the smudges of dirt, he looked like an overgrown child that had escaped his parents' formal dinner party to roughhouse in the garden, complete with stray curls sticking up at odd angles. "I didn't see the harm in it. You wanted the necklace, we brought you the necklace. It just took a bit longer than planned."

Jim's eyes narrowed even further. His hands came up on either side of Sherlock's temples, burying in his hair. "And you didn't think to tell me?" Jim hissed. He leaned up on his toes. "Now you've gone and gotten yourself all dirty, having to send Seb out to track you down. You two had a bit of a scuffle, didn't you?" He was curious, Sherlock could see it in his eyes. Annoyed as he was, he didn't know what Sherlock was up to. 

"Telling you would have ruined the fun," Sherlock protested, but his mouth was still curved into a half-smile. "And fun was the entire point. Sebastian enjoyed himself enough to offer me a reward, but I didn't care to collect in an alleyway."

Jim blinked at him, dark eyes trying to dig into his head, and Sherlock started laughing. "Don't tell me you thought you were going to make me predictable and obedient."

Jim looked petulant. His heels hit the floor and he glared up at the detective beneath dark brows. "Even if I do enjoy a good surprise, don't tell me you didn't think I wouldn't _retaliate_. Did you?" Jim's head rolled. His lashes fluttered, not in temptation but in the strength it took to hold himself back.   
Sebastian, standing behind Sherlock, finally stepped forward. 

"Oh, come now," Sherlock chided. "Retaliate for a late arrival? Or are you just put out that I didn't come back to heel and watch the monitor with you and let you have the fun you wanted?" Sherlock raised his arm and grabbed a handful of Seb's shirt as he stepped forward. This was his game of defiance. 

Seb stopped when Sherlock's arm locked, holding him back, and let the two consultants continue. Jim's eyes glanced at him in suspicion, but turned back to Sherlock.

"And how was I to know you didn't plan to make off with that rock and toss it into the Hudson River?" Jim's lip curled in irritation. "Especially when you're so eager to show your _mischievous_ side?"

"There's a difference between not being mindlessly obedient and actually intending to destroy a working relationship. Did you really think I'd do all of that work just to ruin the job in pointless, petty revenge at the end?" Sherlock asked. "Especially after last night?" The detective was surprised that Jim was still convinced that he'd throw a wrench into the works out of bitter spite after their exchange. "I had thought we had an understanding."

Jim looked like he didn't know how to deal with that. His shoulders straightened and his head tipped up, like he'd been thrown off guard. After a moment, Jim's grip softened and his hands glided down the sides of Sherlock's face. Though he desperately wanted it, it seemed Jim did not quite know how to deal with another man like himself. Jim gave a little sigh. "Did you at least give Seb a good chase?"

"Better than nothing." Sherlock shrugged. "I was limited in direction and speed by the necessity to _not_ draw attention back upon us, but it was amusing. Seb seemed satisfied, at least," he added, glancing sideways and giving the bodyguard a crooked smile. Jim's hands still framed his face, and Sherlock brought his own up to cover them. Their eyes connected and words passed between them - Sherlock had merely been intending to tease, not truly anger.

When Jim calmed under his touch, the bodyguard nearly did a double take. Never before had he seen Jim come down like that for someone else's sake. His cool eyes studied the detective. Sherlock, it seemed, was a snake charmer. 

The softness at the corners of Jim's eyes told Sherlock that he was forgiven. The criminal's head tipped to one side and the anger faded from him, replaced by the hint of a smile. 

Seb could only stand perfectly still and watch, waiting for more. 

Sherlock stroked the back of Jim's hands. "Sebastian has the necklace, if you want it. It's unharmed. I can't quite say the same for our clothing." Sherlock was actually hesitant to touch Jim more than he already was. The criminal seemed to be quite particular about his wardrobe and Sherlock wasn't willing to spark his anger again by ruining his clothes as well. 

Jim's eyes sparked mischievously. "You can put it on the table, Seb. As for your clothes…shame, you might just have to take them all off." 

Sebastian's eyes darted sideways to Sherlock before he stepped back, leaving them to find where Jim had placed a cloth for the necklace. He placed it there lightly, admiring it before it left his hand. It really was a fine piece of stone and he could appreciate such things. Over his shoulder he glanced at the pair again, forced stoicism preventing him from asking Sherlock whether he'd forgotten their plan. 

"I might," Sherlock agreed, and shrugged out of his jacket. "The game, however, isn't _quite_ over yet." Sherlock's gaze settled on the blond man only a short distance away. "I might have lost, but I am still owed my reward for the attempt. It was merely postponed for a more comfortable environment."

Sebastian turned to face them but didn't move any farther. Jim's eyes moved up and down them both, their clothes telling a story. "Ahh. You liked your little tumble on the street, did you?" 

He spoke as much to Sebastian as he did to Sherlock. Still, the bodyguard didn't answer. He would be forced to follow Sherlock's lead in this. Jim's wrath could be newly sparked by the mere implication of his sniper's crush. 

"It was the start of a satisfactory end to the chase." Sherlock's attention was back on Jim. Sebastian was still interested and willing, that much was obvious. Sherlock's concern was whether or not Jim would permit things to go further. The detective leaned down until they were eye level, close enough to kiss. "...do you mind?"

Jim's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward to nip Sherlock's lower lip, forgoing the kiss altogether. "Is that my punishment? For not giving you enough…'action' tonight? Because, believe me, that can be remedied next time." 

Jim had never taken issue with Sherlock going to Seb for his cravings while Jim was away, but he'd never been around to watch them either. Not alone, anyway. Now, it seemed he might. 

"Not necessarily a punishment, no." Sherlock _had_ been irritated about the dullness of his role, but he'd only intended to irritate Jim through his deviation from the plan... not with this. "Although I'd appreciate something a bit more... stimulating next time, this has nothing to do with the job you gave me."

Sherlock stayed still, searching for an answer in Jim's face and the lines of his body. "...Is it too upsetting?"

Sebastian drew closer, enough to stop at arm's length from Jim, whose eyes slid to catch Seb in his gaze and hold him there. For once, the look Sebastian gave Jim was inviting, openly so. If Jim didn't want to be left out of the proceedings, Sebastian was more than willing to let him in. Sherlock had lowered the criminal's defenses just enough for the bodyguard to drop his usually aloof facade. Usually, Jim did not like to see what lay beneath unless he had Seb at his feet. 

Daringly, Seb reached out to take one of Jim's arms. Jim's eyes narrowed, but he allowed it, even when Seb turned it over and kissed the palm. His strong fingers wrapped loosely around it. "We did have one other idea, if you weren't agreeable to the first."

"I suggested tying you up, but Seb gave me the impression that you'd murder us both in retaliation," Sherlock added with a roll of his eyes. "The alternative options being... watching, or participating."

They'd already been together once... in a way. Sherlock wasn't quite certain what that encounter at the warehouse counted as, precisely. Jim had been the one between himself and Seb then. If he was honest with himself, the detective didn't know how he'd react if Jim wanted to join them and he had to split his attention between the two men. Each of them were dangerous enough just by themselves. Being the focus of both at the same time might prove to be overwhelming.

Especially if the tension sparking between them meant they fought one another for Sherlock. Jim's wrist tightened in Seb's hand. 

It was obvious that Sebastian wanted the criminal to join, but he knew how Jim was and he also didn't want to give up his claim on Sherlock for the night either. The man met Jim's gaze defiantly, and, after a long moment of staring between them, for once it was Jim who broke away. He rolled his head to look up at Sherlock instead. With his head tilted back and his big eyes, his expression was almost innocently beseeching. "I do suppose you deserve _some_ compensation for your efforts." He leaned up to Sherlock's neck, hot breath ghosting up it. "But you wouldn't leave me out of the fun, would you?" 

Tension wound itself through Sherlock's frame. He knew very well at this point, however much Jim projected a gentle innocence, that such a persona didn't extend beneath the surface. That Jim's affectations could very well signal that the situation was about to become dangerous. 

"No," Sherlock breathed in agreement. It seemed ill-conceived to attempt to deny the criminal right now. "No, but it... depends on what you wanted."

Jim's expression didn't fade, not like it often did the moment he received an answer. Instead, he hovered where he was, nose brushing the curve where Sherlock's neck met his jaw. " _I_ think…," Jim began slowly, "that perhaps tonight, just tonight, can be all…about…you…." With that, he set his heels back down on the floor and rolled his head to survey Sebastian. "And you may have me do anything you like," he added with a smile, glancing back at Sherlock. 

A reward for the job was surely playing into Jim's decision. If Jim was going to give Sherlock something, he was going to give him _everything_ , with the benefit that anything Jim did with Sebastian would be conveniently and solely at Sherlock's request. It was a one time offer, and tomorrow, Jim would be as cold and commanding as ever and Sebastian would have to accept it. Let it never be said that Jim Moriarty did not know how to keep hold of his soldier.

Jim's words, masterfully chosen, completely derailed Sherlock's train of thought. He stared as his mind struggled to rapidly switch gears. Fitting, to be surprised after he'd thrown the criminal for a loop earlier in the evening.

"I... don't know what to ask for," he admitted. Sherlock glanced between the two men, wide-eyed and looking oddly stricken. As well as he knew the basics now, his experience was still limited. The detective had never researched into the subject enough to know what one did with multiple partners.

A hint of Jim's sly nature came into his widening smile, and still he remained as docile as ever but for his fingers walking up Sherlock's arm. 

Sebastian, on the other hand, looked torn and interested all at once. As much as he was under Jim's thrall, he couldn't hide his excitement. Even though he knew very well what a ploy it was on Jim's part. His attention was divided now on the two men, yet this was still all under Sherlock's control. If Sebastian were to step outside of that boundary now, Jim would drop the act immediately. It meant only one thing - Seb had to ignore it. As best he could. Instead, his hand drifted up Sherlock's hip, and he turned to the other tall man. "Start with whatever you want, however much or little, and let it go from there. Whenever you want something more, all you have to do is ask." 

Asking was something new. Sherlock was used to taking, stealing, manipulating. Requesting such personal things seemed odd, to him. He needed _time_ , time to think. "First priority, I should think, is getting cleaned up. As entertaining as the alleyway was, I don't particularly want to taste or feel it." 

Washing would give them something to start with, something... safe. More familiar, at least, something to work up from. Sherlock grabbed Jim's hand from his arm, laced their fingers together. "I don't know if we'll all fit in the shower, however."

The man's dark laughter tinkled through the air. He placed a quick kiss to Sherlock's jaw. "You first."  
Sherlock's comment did get a rather devious look from Sebastian, however, and the man led the way, allowing himself into Jim's rooms on this one special occasion. Jim did not technically need a shower as he hadn't been rolling on the ground or even away from the high rise that night, but if there was any chance that Sherlock _did_ want the three of them there, he was not going to pass it up. 

Sherlock trailed after Sebastian. He was moderately surprised that the man seemed as comfortable in Jim's portion of the apartment as he did. The bodyguard didn't hesitate before entering and went straight for the tap. 

Sherlock watched him bend at the waist and test the water. He licked his lips and fiddled with the edges of his soiled clothing before deciding there was nothing for it - both men had already seen him without a stitch on. Sherlock began peeling off the layers and dropping them on the floor. He wasn't embarrassed, simply... on edge. His mind was overthinking matters, and he knew it. 

Sebastian turned when he heard what Sherlock was doing. Without a hint of self-consciousness, he went up to Sherlock and stopped him with a hand to his wrist. The subtle heat in Sebastian's gaze hadn't gone away. "Let me," he said, and Sebastian's hands took over where Sherlock had left off. He undid the rest of Sherlock's belt, and dropped very suggestively to the floor with Sherlock's trousers as he helped them off. All the while Jim casually leaned against the sink, watching with a curious amount of interest. 

They must have made quite a nice sight for whatever jealousy Jim had at Seb touching Sherlock to be tempered. 

Sherlock was surprised for the second time that night. The blond man had always struck him as someone who didn't care to ever be perceived as being in the less-dominant role. At least, not with anyone but Jim. The detective steadied himself with one had on Seb's shoulder and he began to wonder precisely when he'd lost his mind. Perhaps Jim had stolen it, along with everything else. "What changed?"

Seb's blue eyes flashed up to him before the man stood, very slowly, brushing his hands along Sherlock's bare legs and sides as he rose. 

"You." There was a little smile in the corner of Seb's mouth. He could only have meant the job tonight because Sherlock certainly hadn't _changed_ in any other way than helping Jim. But for Sebastian, that made a difference. Essentially, Sherlock had taken a step up on Jim's podium, the vantage point from which the man ruled over all below him, Sebastian included. It was a small step, but it made an impression. 

Sherlock sobered, letting this new information sink in. It was a relief, in a way. Sebastian had been aggressive, dominant, all forceful personality whether rigidly sticking to orders or letting his own desires run free for a time. Sherlock thought it was better for him not to be held in check merely by the knowledge that Jim would murder him if he crossed too many lines. Having control of his own was a good thing. What remained to be seen is whether this extinguished the sense of danger that clung to the man's skin, which had been part of what made him attractive.

Sherlock still felt out of his element, but his spine straightened a bit. "Stand up and get in."

Sebastian chuckled. 

With a wry smile and a quick brush of his lips against Sherlock's, a tease, he complied. 

"Don't look so surprised," Jim mused when Sherlock's gaze met his. "I did say tonight would be all about you, after all." He pushed his hip away from the sink and loosened one cufflink and then the other. 

Jim was perhaps taking more credit than was his due in regard to Sebastian's little show just then, but he did have a point. In a way, the gunman was still following Jim's lead. 

Sherlock stepped closer, leaned down and kissed Jim briefly. He didn't dare touch him with his dirty hands and ruin yet another set of clothes for the evening. "Generous, indeed," he murmured. He kept his eyes on Jim as he stepped backwards, only turning when he finally reached the stall. An idea was beginning to form in his mind.

He trusted both men, but in entirely different ways. He trusted Sebastian to be fairly predictable and true to his nature, and he trusted Jim to be unpredictable to a certain degree but devoted regardless. Both of them were dangerous in some areas, safer in others, and they didn't quite overlap. Sherlock had come to the realization that, when it came to trust involving his body integrity, he was inclined to give himself over into Jim's care _more_. 

Warm mist from the showerhead hit Sherlock's skin. It felt better than he was expecting, after the chill of the streets. Better yet when it came with a hand at his waist. 

Seb bent over Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him closer. The man's hair was already slicked back with water, it having sluiced most of the grim from him already, and he nipped the sinewy muscle at the junction of Sherlock's neck. His hands wandered, washing water over the detective's skin wherever they went before Seb turned him around and they were face to face. His teeth flashed in a crooked little smile and he bit Sherlock's neck again. He may have implied he'd submit to Sherlock if he were asked, but the man's nature was a hard thing to win over. 

After a minute more, another bare arm slid gently over Sherlock's hip. This time from behind. 

Sherlock's eyes closed. He recognized the arm. Would probably be able to recognize Jim by touch or scent alone by now, not just sight and sound. His hand covered Jim's smaller one, threaded their fingers together and tugged him closer in invitation. Jim didn't need much persuading.

And then he was trapped between two bodies, Sebastian's teeth at his neck and Jim's nails drifting over tender, fragile skin. Sherlock was having a difficult time breathing properly. The criminal and the bodyguard seemed, from his perspective, to be engaged in a kind of war. They wanted him to choose, but each was doing their best to persuade him to choose what they wanted.

Jim got his hands around Sherlock's hips and pulled him to turn, forcing Seb to break from Sherlock's neck long enough for him to rotate. As soon as he was facing Jim, the shorter man pressed into him, drawing him down for a kiss while Sebastian locked back on the place he had been marking on Sherlock's shoulder, this time from a different angle. They could see each other now, the two men on either side of Sherlock, but Jim plainly ignored Sebastian. His gaze stayed fixed to the tall detective. 

Crimes of passion made more sense to Sherlock now. It was no wonder that criminals were so abysmal at covering their tracks during and afterwards if one couldn't _think_. Sherlock's hands framed Jim's face as they kissed. Their eyes met, and Sherlock sunk a little deeper even while one of Seb's hands drifted lower.

The detective let out a shaky breath. He'd decided. "Jim." Another breath. He had to actually say it. When he forced the words out, they were quieter than he intended. "...fuck me while I fuck Sebastian."

Jim gasped hot air against Sherlock's mouth. He hardened noticeably, pressing into Sherlock's hip. The request obviously was a surprise because his eyes lit up right away. The pulse of excitement the idea send through Jim's body was almost tangible, like electricity radiating from his skin. Even Sebastian groaned behind him, mouth moving up to Sherlock's ear. 

Sebastian hadn't yet let Sherlock penetrate him, but he might tonight. Now that Sherlock had taken the first step to raise himself up a level in the man's mind, and with Jim's added persuasion, he did not immediately object. 

Sherlock could see and feel Jim's assent. Words didn't need to be spoken - they were getting progressively better at reading each other. Sebastian seemed... open to the idea at least, based upon the way he'd begun to nip along the edges of Sherlock's ear and press closer behind him. 

Sherlock needed to be certain. He reached back and grabbed a fistful of wet, blond hair, pulling the man away slightly so Sherlock could turn to look at him. If both men had insisted that he ask for what he wanted, they were damn well going to do the same. "Is that an agreement? Tell me. _Both_ of you." 

Jim nosed up along the other side of Sherlock's neck. "Most definitely, yes." His eyes flashed at Sebastian, possibly the first time he'd acknowledged the man's presence and still there was a coyness to his gaze that was all for the gunman. "Whatdy'a say, Seb?" 

"Yes." The final answer was whispered gruffly in Sherlock's ear. Sebastian's grip tightened around Sherlock's waist. He was unwilling to back down. 

A sense of power hit the detective, heady enough to make the room tilt. Sherlock discovered that he quite liked the sensation. His fingers loosened their hold and stroked a path down Seb's cheek, tracing over a scar. "Then let's finish washing up and get out."

The question still remained as to how things would be different with Sebastian, in this. Their previous encounters had been few, limited, and edged with a sort of roughness that Sherlock didn't experience with Jim. Sherlock didn't know if that was always Seb's preference. "You know the mechanics, but have you ever been in the receptive role before?" Just because Sebastian's attitude didn't indicate the possibility as likely didn't mean that the man had never tried it. 

A single puff of air brushed against the back of Sherlock's neck. "No," Seb breathed. "I'm not usually the type." 

Sebastian's hands finished running over Sherlock's back and shoulders while Jim's swept the water through his hair. The smaller man was eyeing him head tilted just slightly, admiring what he saw in Sherlock. Perhaps Jim was seeing something surfacing in him, something he liked very much. 

Sebastian reached behind him and shut off the water. Jim's shower had definitely been roomy enough, but they had to step out carefully. 

Seb's admission gave Sherlock more to mull over. His time with Jim had been a series of firsts, now extended to the man's bodyguard. Sebastian likely wouldn't suffer from the same sort of nerves that he had, but this was still his first time accepting a role that wasn't usually his choice. Something about that made Sherlock's blood heat.

He liked Sebastian. It was an entirely different feeling than what he held for Jim, but Sherlock liked him all the same. He'd err on the side of caution and only take it rougher if the blond seemed amenable.

White towels were snatched from the nearby rack and distributed. Drying was a more complicated affair than it needed to be - Jim and Sebastian both kept trying to help Sherlock along, and he did the same. Sherlock ran his fingers through Jim's hair until it stood up in the ridiculous spikes he recalled from before, and a fond smile touched his lips.

Jim batted his lashes and gave him a crooked smile in return. Even Sebastian laughed when he looked up and saw Jim. The man was acting coy, leaning in to tease Sherlock with a kiss before pulling away, waiting for Sherlock to turn his head to nip the skin at his shoulder and pull back again. 

Seb's large hands slid down Sherlock's arms and loosely encircled his wrists, and the detective knew that had this been another game, Seb would have liked to hold him there for Jim's amusement. 

"Come to bed," Jim called softly over his shoulder and slinked out of the room. Sebastian took one last moment to hold Sherlock against him, admiring the mark he'd left on the detective's neck and placing a kiss over it. 

Sherlock jumped at the touch. Tender skin had only been made more sensitive through teasing abuse, and Seb's mouth felt hot over the mark. Part of him toyed with the idea of letting Seb hold him down while Jim had a bit of fun. He filed it away for another time.

Sherlock pried himself loose from Sebastian's hands and turned, tugged him forward by one wrist. "Anything I should know before we begin?" This was Seb's chance to back down or set parameters. If he didn't speak up, Sherlock would simply do whatever struck his fancy.

He got a cocky grin in return for his trouble. "You won't break me."

Jim was waiting for them on his own bed. His back rested against the headboard and he was splayed out over the rest with a little smile on his face. 

Seb paused at the doorway, just to take him in. He let out a sharp breath. " _Jesus_ , Jim." 

The man on the bed gave Seb a wink and let his smile draw wider. It was becoming clearer that this wasn't truly Jim, not the Jim they had usually known, and not quite the Jim Sherlock had been with that morning. He was too coy, too accommodating, more like one of his personalities shifting in and out of his usual persona. 

The obfuscation bothered Sherlock, but he also understood why. Jim was doing this for him, but wasn't entirely pleased with the situation. Even if he had been, he didn't show his core. Sherlock had been the only one to get down that far; would likely be the only one _ever_ to reach it.

Sherlock let go of Seb's wrist and crossed the room. He slid into place beside the smaller man and curled around him. Their surroundings brought pleasant recollections of the previous night. The detective stared into Jim and knew he wouldn't see anything right now. He brushed his lips across Jim's anyway.

Jim returned it without hesitation. His large eyes closed, but when his fingers ran up Sherlock's spine and caressed the flesh at the base of his neck, there was a bit of Jim's self in them. It was something unnoticeable to Sebastian, something that didn't reflect in Jim's face, but Sherlock could indeed recognize the man by his touch now. 

Sebastian moved closer until he stood at the side of the bed. Jim broke the kiss and his eyes moved to the bodyguard. Sebastian was staring at him like he was being tested, but then Jim's hand rose, palm up, beckoning Seb to them. 

Slowly, he lifted one knee to the bed and climbed forward, eyes on Jim's the whole time as though he were waiting for the man to strike. When Sebastian reached Jim's hand, the criminal's fingers wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him forward. Jim's mouth met his forcefully. 

Sherlock pulled back to watch them both. He didn't feel any possessiveness, oddly enough. The interaction between Jim and Seb was nothing like Jim's interactions with him. The smaller criminal wasn't quite there, but that didn't seem to matter to Seb - or perhaps he didn't notice. There were lines of emotion on the blond's face that were actually quite touching, even as cords of muscle bunched and tensed in Seb's back. He was wary and expecting to have to pull back.

Sherlock let Sebastian have his reverie. When the two men broke apart to breathe, Sherlock drew closer and took over. He turned Sebastian and kissed him like Jim had only moments before.

Jim crawled back and let Sherlock push Seb down to the mattress, almost exactly where Jim had been lying before. Sebastian went willingly. He was very pliant after Jim's kiss. He became one long line of muscle, relaxed and stretched out beneath Sherlock. The man's large hands found their way to Sherlock's damp curls and began winding in them. Behind him, light fingers trailed down Sherlock's back, over his sides, in the dip of his hips, down and up again, just touching. Jim was exploring while Sherlock was distracted. 

Sherlock's mind was quieting. That was the draw of this, really, besides the pleasure of the moment and the pleasant afterglow that clung to him afterward: his brain stopped thinking about everything and scrabbling for a challenge. He could simply _be_ for a while. Sherlock took in the lines of Sebastian's form with darkened eyes, locked gazes with him. Pangs of craving hit him, sharp as the withdrawal he'd felt before from his other drugs of choice.

Sherlock's mouth curled into a predatory smile. Nails scraped down the blond's sides before one hand snuck between them to explore.

Sebastian had been fully erect since the moment he'd seen Jim lying on the bed waiting for them and now he squirmed under Sherlock's hand. It was a novel moment, that what they were about to do, Seb had never done for anyone else. Surely he would have for Jim, if the criminal had ever asked or they had ever been this way before Sherlock arrived and stirred everything up between them. Sherlock was being allowed privileged access to hidden parts of both men, if not at the same time. 

Seb's head fell back against the mattress, neck arching under Sherlock's touch. There was a kiss placed at the back of Sherlock's neck, and when Jim's body pressed against his, Jim watched him work. 

Just how alike Jim and Sherlock were was all the more apparent when they both looked at Sebastian at the same time.

Sherlock fell upon Seb, taking advantage of his pliancy to do what the man might not permit him to do again - explore without interference or consequences. He began mapping the blond's body to memory, noting where and how a touch made him squirm or changed his breathing, tracing over scars with his tongue. Jim was a constant presence behind him, warmth and possessive hands on skin.

Sebastian's body writhed under him, muscles flexing and relaxing in the visible moments he wanted to rear up and give Sherlock a challenge. Had both the other men not been pinning him with their eyes alone, he would have. Sex was often a battle for Sebastian. Still this drew teasing pleasure all over him, and his breath hitched when he felt Jim's hands stroking back his hair in counterpoint to Sherlock's exploring hands. The two men were becoming his masters, reigning Sebastian in and forcing him to bend to their will. 

Sherlock seemed amused at the way Seb tensed, as if to strike back, only to back down into submission. It was another taste of power, knowing what Sebastian was capable of and watching the man struggle not to fight back. 

Sherlock broke contact just long enough to lean over and snatch the bottle of lubricant from the drawer. If Sebastian had a reaction to the sound of the cap snapping open, Sherlock couldn't spot it. He coated his fingers and watched Seb watching him. The bottle was passed behind to Jim.

Jim took it and pressed a biting kiss below Sherlock's ear. Excitement was building in the man and the subtle mask he wore was shifting from docile to enthusiastic. A bit of Jim's natural possessiveness spread from the fingers he stroked over Sherlock's shoulders, thumbs pressed to his spine, and down his back. 

Sebastian did not look uneasy at all. He may have never allowed any other man inside him before, but he did not appear to be worried. He was not afraid of pain, nor subjecting his body to extreme sensation, it had only been on principle. 

Pain wasn't something Sherlock was intent on causing. He didn't have his brother's taste for sadism. Sherlock arched a little as Jim's fingers traveled down his spine and he made a sound low in his throat. It took a moment for his concentration to return, for him to shift Sebastian's hips into the right angle. He carefully circled tense muscles with slicked fingers. He waited until he felt some of the tension subside before slowly pressing one digit forward.

Sebastian had said that Sherlock wouldn't break him, but he was intent on taking his time and doing this right.

"So _careful_ ," Jim cooed in his ear. His voice was a light tinkling in the relative silence of the room. Only the slide of bedsheets and heavy breaths permeated it before. His soft laughter was a purr against Sherlock's shoulder. 

Jim was watching with interest. Strange that in this way, he could see Sebastian like this, using Sherlock as his proxy and giving the loyal bodyguard nothing he wanted from Jim in return. His manipulative streak coming to the fore, Jim delighted in Sebastian's subtle torment. 

Sherlock knew, as well, that he wasn't really who Seb wanted. He was a placeholder, a substitute, the next best thing that was actually within reach. That was... frustrating, he had to admit, but there was nothing to be done about that. Sherlock might have reached the point where he was becoming the man's second master, but Jim would always come first. For both of them. The smaller man had deftly entwined both of them and pulled all the strings.

Sherlock slid his finger in further as he felt Seb relax a bit, then twisted and crooked it. It took a moment to find the right spot.

He received a grunt of pleasure for his trouble. Sebastian's eyes fixed to his, and the man's lips parted. Seb lifted his hips encouragingly. "C'mon, not gonna hurt me," he mumbled. 

That got another laugh from Jim, who would as much as said aloud that he would not mind seeing Sebastian hurting at Sherlock's hands. Jim's wandering hands had found the lube at some point, because his fingers were now slick with it. They ran over Sherlock's hips and lightly stroked his cock, just enough to make him want more. 

"I'd prefer to make certain I don't." Even as Sherlock spoke, he added another finger. Sebastian's gruffness had fallen on deaf ears, but Jim's goading was working where he'd failed. His hips canted forward against Jim's hand. Sherlock crooked his fingers again, trying to draw a reaction out of Seb that wasn't tightly controlled bravado. 

Sebastian groaned again, but it was definitely from pleasure. His head pushed back into the mattress and his hips squirmed on Sherlock's fingers. Every twitch he made was visible in the length of his body, defined as he was. The lower muscles of his abdomen tightened when he pushed into Sherlock's hand. 

"Are you so sure about that?" Jim whispered in his ear, giving his cock a squeeze. Jim was hard against him, but the criminal made no move to disrupt the moment between him and Sebastian. 

Sherlock licked his lips. He was beginning to appreciate just how restrained Jim had been with him, slowly leading him into things instead of just pouncing as soon as he was in the criminal's possession. Fixated as he was, having him so close and being untouchable must have been torment.

Much as Jim was always right there, yet forever out of Seb's reach. Sherlock remembered the first time they'd experimented with each other - how Sebastian hadn't taken his discomfort into mind. How the man had responded whenever he'd become aggressive. He added a third finger and leaned closer, enough to whisper in Seb's ear.

"...are you thinking of me, or are you thinking of _Jim_?"

Seb laughed outright. "Both of you." The man couldn't help it, not with Sherlock and Jim hovering over him like that. Very soon, Sherlock would be inside him, and Jim would be inside Sherlock, and the two dark haired men would practically be one, penetrating Sebastian at the same time. " _Fuck_ ," he gasped. Sherlock's fingers drew that pleasure out of him again. He would be feeling a bit of the burn now, but Sebastian didn't show it. 

Sherlock had watched Seb closely and followed his train of thought. He shook his head. "Just me," he whispered. He let his fingers slide in and out, testing. For someone who hadn't done this before, Sebastian had loosened up surprisingly quickly. "Just me." Something twisted inside the detective and forced the words out in a hiss. "What's it like, having Jim right here, being in his bedroom, and _knowing_ he won't fuck you? That he's letting me claim you instead?"

The burn of pleasure warmed Sebastian at the same time Sherlock's words punched him in the gut. He groaned and snarled, an exclamation of pleasure that turned into one of aggravation. His lips pulled back from his teeth and he bared them at Sherlock. His ankles hooked around Sherlock's thighs and one of Seb's hands grabbed his wrist. "You trying to piss me off, or what?" 

Jim had ducked out of sight, but behind Sherlock's back came a small tinkle of laughter. 

"Maybe. Maybe I'm trying to get you to concentrate." And here it was again, one of the thrills he'd sought from his old life - playing with a killer and staying just a step or two ahead. A safer sort of danger. "You're thinking of _both_ of us, of this being Jim by proxy. Which means you're ignoring me and reaching for shadows. I don't care to be ignored."

The detective drew closer to the angry lines of Seb's mouth. "I'm what's within reach. You need to think about that before you throw away the possibilities in front of you to go chase after Jim. I'm not going to be satisfied with being his substitute."

"Show him," Jim whispered in Sherlock's ear while nimble fingers gave his cock another squeeze.   
Seb thrashed a bit when Sherlock's fingers never relented their strokes, even through his words. It left the large man under him caught in frustration between pleasure and Sherlock's verbal attack, but Sebastian's eyes were fixed on him now. He'd gotten Sebastian's attention. 

Cruelty and fondness warred for dominance in the detective. Some of it must have shown in his face, given the way Seb's eyes darted across his features. He liked Seb, he did. But if the bodyguard wanted to have fun with him, Sherlock needed him to want to have fun with _him_. "Good. I see the reason for some of it, now. Sometimes I can't be gentle or you won't respond properly at all."

Sherlock kept stroking, watching the way Seb squirmed from overstimulation. "So what is it, precisely? It's not as simple as a savior complex. You're not the simple type. Is it because you enjoy a feeling of danger, that you're not the biggest, cleverest predator in the room? The feeling of being prey, however brief? If that's what you're craving, I can indulge you."

Seb's head dropped back in a halo of straw colored hair, rolling away from Sherlock's questions before he snapped back to meet the detective's gaze head on. "Then _indulge me already_ ," he snarled. Sebastian was not one to lay his guts out on a platter, and especially not with words. He ground his teeth together and dared Sherlock to do it with his hard gaze. 

Jim's hand slipped away from Sherlock's cock, leaving him hard and bare against the cool air. Seb refused to speak, but he was willing to open his body to Sherlock. Jim placed kisses down Sherlock's spine and pressed himself to the detective's back, urging him forward. 

There was hurt, in there. Not even buried all that well, hidden right behind a hardened soldier's eyes and scarred muscle and enough bravado for a whole platoon. Sherlock didn't say anything more, just stared down at Seb. He retracted his fingers and quickly replaced them with his cock, a slow slide that must have still burned despite the preparation they'd done. Seb's jaw was tight.

Sherlock wondered what he'd look like, cracked open so he could see the shards inside him that obviously caused Sebastian some pain. "...let me in."

A breath hissed between Seb's teeth, whether from the burn of Sherlock's cock or his words was hard to say, but the man lifted his hips to meet Sherlock who was quickly buried to the hilt. It must have been out of defiance, of his own body, of his own weaknesses, that Seb let it happen so quickly. Apart from the tightness of his frame, he made no mention of discomfort. He snagged Sherlock by the hair and pulled the detective's mouth down to his. 

Sebastian wanted roughness. Sherlock let him have what he wanted. One hand circled the man's throat in warning and he bit at Seb's mouth, biting and licking in his attempts to reach inside of him and grab hold of what he wanted to see. It was there, just out of reach. His fingers tightened and his hips drove forward. Sherlock swallowed the small sound the bodyguard made in response.

Jim was moving now, running his hands down Sherlock's back in long, petting motions. They were removed once and came back slick with lubricant. They dipped below Sherlock's arse as he moved, cupping his balls and running back to the ring of muscle behind them. Sherlock could feel Jim's teeth against his shoulder. The man wasn't biting, but he was grinning into the pale skin. Jim was doing his best to contain himself without breaking the moment between the detective and his gunman, but he was almost shaking with glee. 

Sherlock grunted when he finally felt that slickness push in. The juxtaposition of contrasting sensations was already intense, and they hadn't even really begun. Sebastian was warm, exquisitely tight, and Sherlock could only imagine what it would feel like when Jim joined them. He shivered, already feeling ghostly, possessive hands gripping his hips.

He locked eyes with Sebastian, thrust again. His hand loosened so the blond could breathe easier. He felt Seb's adam's apple bob as swallowed.

Seb's eyes rolled back and he sucked in a deep breath of air, but he snapped back to Sherlock a second later and jerked his hips up to meet the detective. Seb's teeth flashed, he was gritting them hard but not in warning. It was more like he was goading Sherlock. There was a challenge in his eyes. " _I can take it._ " 

And then Jim's fingers stroked Sherlock just the right way, adding a second finger and doing it again. 

Seb could see every time Jim brushed the right spot. Sherlock's eyes lost a bit of focus and the lines of his body tightened. His hips stuttered, not knowing whether to thrust forward or back. Sherlock's breath left him in a hiss. "You can take it, but is that what you _want_? Punishment, feeling raw?" The detective wanted to dig around in Sebastian's head, but Jim was proving more than a little distracting.

"Yes Sherlock, that is what Seb wants," came a whisper behind his ear. Seb gasped. "But not from just anyone, _nooo_ …. He wants a good _fight_ , a killer more capable even than him. Don't you Seb?" 

Sebastian screwed his eyes shut and the hiss that passed through his lips came from his very core, shaky, tempered only through sheer force of will. 

Jim's breath was hot laughter against the back of Sherlock's neck. "But he hates every moment of it. Poor Seb doesn't _want_ to be beaten. Everything about him is fundamentally against the very notion of it." Jim's laughter turned cruel. "But he can't help but want the man who would do it to him. Beat him. Bring him to his knees. And all because I saw enough in him to save his pitiful life once upon a time. Fuck him, and save him, and you will have Seb any way you want." 

Jim withdrew his fingers and positioned his cock. On Sherlock's next thrust, Jim was pushing into him. 

Sherlock bared his teeth against the intrusion and his nails dug into Seb's throat. He felt like he was being pulled apart. Jim was right behind him, pushing all the right buttons. The criminal had manipulated the situation enough to get what he wanted even when he wasn't supposed to be the one in control. For all that Sherlock didn't want Sebastian to view him as Jim's proxy, right now he might as well have been.

Now that the key had been voiced, Sherlock found that he couldn't help himself. Sebastian was Jim's toy, one that he wanted. One more piece of a life that had begun to mesh with his own until Sherlock found it had to see precisely where the threads had woven together, and when. 

He thrust harder and tightened his handhold, enough to cut off Seb's air.

Sebastian was silent very suddenly, the groan coming from his mouth ended in a choked off breath. His teeth grit together but his eyes moved wildly between Jim and Sherlock. His large fists bunched in the sheets when Jim rocked his hips into Sherlock, burying himself to the hilt and pushing Sherlock into Seb with the momentum. A strangled sound escaped him. His muscles rippled and bunched, but he didn't lash out at the detective. 

Jim was biting Sherlock's ear as he moved. "Do you know how magnificent you look when you know what you want?" he whispered to the detective. "Your eyes all alight… That _focus_ in every…part…of your body?" He punctuated his words with their rhythm. 

Sherlock's focus was sharpened and driven by Jim's words, the way the smaller man slid into his body and mind. It took a few moments for them to sync their movements. Sherlock kept a close watch on Seb as they both drove into him, or as close as he could manage - being with Jim like this was never anything less than intense, even if he couldn't meet the criminal's dark eyes and sink into them. 

Sherlock's grip loosened just as they reached the danger point. Seb's lips parted for air. Sherlock took the invitation and breathed into him.

Sebastian made a small sound between their lips. His chest rose deeply and his arms came around Sherlock's shoulders to pull him down. He pressed the lithe man into him, holding him there like he was air itself. Sherlock was bringing him back from the edge, where he had taken Sebastian in the first place, and still they rocked together. 

Jim was hissing and grinning in Sherlock's ear as he thrust. Every move he made sent Sherlock forward into Sebastian. "Yessssss." 

Sherlock had a good idea of what Sebastian was feeling. He'd never been on the other side of breath play, but he'd studied hypoxia. The rush was said to be somewhat akin to that of cocaine, the effects of which he _was_ personally familiar with. He shifted Seb's hips to get a better angle, kissing him and letting him cling. The adjustment cause Jim to thrust in just the right spot, and Sherlock moaned into the blond's mouth.

When Sebastian seemed sufficiently recovered, Sherlock's grip tightened again.

Seb's head lolled back against the sheets. For once, the man was helpless. Beneath Jim and Sherlock, he lay with every tendon in his body taut, gasping silently for breaths that never came while pleasure thrummed through his body at every stroke and the high of the momentary relief he'd gotten gnawed at his mind. All the while Sherlock loomed over him with feverishly bright eyes, intent on owning him, and Jim's face swam in and out of his vision. 

Jim's thrusts were quickening. He was moving into Sherlock like he was a part of him, like they were one. " _One more time_ ," he whispered to Sherlock with a shaky breath. 

Sherlock silently concurred. He smiled down at Seb and let go of his throat. The detective's hand moved to the back of Seb's head and drew him up, supporting his oxygen-starved muscles and breathing into him again. Jim kept the rhythm going, pushing them together, all three of them locked in a tangle of limbs.

With another cry, Seb was coming. His body rocked under Sherlock, tensing even more as an avalanche of sensation fell upon him. Slickness coated their stomachs where Sherlock was pressed against him and Seb's eyes rolled back in his head, awake and aware, but just barely. It was then that Jim's teeth sank into Sherlock's shoulder, spurred by the sight of it, of what Sherlock had done to his gunman. 

Sherlock cried out at the sudden pain. Jim began thrusting more quickly and Sherlock clung to Seb's spent frame. The detective barely lasted another minute before he reached the edge, burying himself to the hilt as he climaxed. His shoulder ached. Jim didn't want to let him go.

Three, four more thrusts and Jim was rearing up and looking down at the both of them, collapsed onto one another, and then Jim followed. He curled over Sherlock's back when he came. With his mouth open and eyes clenched shut, he looked like he was in pain, but he rode it out until the wave of sensation had reached the very last of his nerves before falling against Sherlock's back. 

Sherlock felt encased in warmth, trapped between the two men. He rose and fell with Seb's breath, and Jim was curled around him with possessive fingers carding through his hair. He ached. He also felt oddly safe, surrounded as he was by two killers, and particularly reluctant to move. Grey eyes flicked up and took in the ring of bruises he'd left on Seb's neck. Sherlock reached out and traced a fingertip over the lines.

Jim's head cocked behind him, a shift just barely enough for Sherlock to feel. "Those look lovely on you, Sebastian," he breathed with a smile. 

Sebastian closed his eyes and let out a breath. Jim's words were somewhere between gentle and cruel, and it was impossible to tell which, but, like a small gift, Jim reached out to push a few strands of damp hair off Seb's forehead when the man's eyes fluttered open. Jim smiled down at him. 

Seb's blue eyes turned to Sherlock. There was a moment of something there, tired and relaxed as they all were. Sherlock had held Seb's life quite literally in his hands and given him ecstasy in return. And Sherlock had enjoyed it. So had Sebastian. 

Time would tell how this would affect their relationship. Sherlock had an idea of what he wanted, but whether or not it happened would be up to Seb. And, in a way, up to Jim. Anything that developed could be quickly killed with a word from the criminal should he not desire a particular connection to be made.

Sherlock smiled at the blond, but it was soft, not mocking. "Can't do that too often. I'm told it's addicting."

Seb's mouth turned up and he breathed out a laugh. In truth, it was a bit like skydiving or base jumping. Dangerous, with an edge of the extreme to it, but when one hit that perfect moment, it was worth it. His strong arms wrapped around Sherlock, shifting him to the side so that Jim could move to see better. Jim's hand brushed Sherlock's hair the way he had done Sebastian's when the detective was between them. 

"Addicting for which of you?" Jim asked slyly. 

"Both of us, at this rate." Sherlock groaned as he settled onto the mattress. The attention was proving to be equally addicting. Sherlock had always had a craving for it, when it was positive, and being the focus of both Jim and Seb was proving to be a heady experience. "I'm going to consider the experiment a success. This was a sufficient reward for the boring legwork."

Jim relaxed against his side, big eyes looking fondly up at Sherlock. He already had plans for a job specifically suited to Sherlock, and the detective knew it. Now that Sherlock had shown interest, Jim was only too happy to bring him into the fold. Dark dreams danced behind his eyes, wide open for Sherlock to see. Jim knew it wouldn't be very long before the work was its own reward. 

"I'm happy to hear that," Jim purred against his collarbone. 

"I would prefer if you made the next job more interesting, however," Sherlock murmured. Jim's soft eyes were endearing on their own, but more so because Sherlock knew it wasn't an act with him. Jim was pleased, and Sherlock was surprised to feel warm pleasure rushing through him at the thought that he'd made the smaller man so content. It was something he associated more with John, small actions that had made the doctor light up with soft smiles and unspoken gratitude.

Jim's happiness was more overt, curled against his side and tugging his expressive mouth into an eye-catching smile.

"You can count on that," he promised Sherlock and stretched contentedly at his side. According to him, the next job could very well hinge on Sherlock completely. If that was the case, it would be a very quick escalation, but not one Sherlock hadn't asked for himself. Jim couldn't be happier. 

Without moving more than he had to, Sebastian reached over to the wall and softened the light. Jim didn't make any motion to kick him out of his bed, only burrowed deeper against Sherlock's side, and so Seb took it as a sign that he might be allowed to stay. 

Sherlock wrapped an arm around Jim. He turned his head slightly when Seb moved. When the bodyguard didn't leave the bed Sherlock reached out and caught his arm. Their gazes locked together for a moment and Sherlock guided the blond's hand to his waist. The invitation was obvious enough - Sherlock didn't mind if Sebastian stayed.

He was rewarded with a sincere look of gratitude from Sebastian and the warmth of the blankets pulled over the three of them. Jim closed his eyes and what seemed like only seconds later, his breathing evened. The man could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. 

On Sherlock's other side, Sebastian smiled, but he didn't take his attention from Sherlock for long. Resting an arm beneath his head, his hand stroked lazily over Sherlock's side. Sebastian was tired, he had to be, but he seemed to enjoy watching over the two of them. 

Minutes slipped by as Sherlock watched Jim sleep. The detective was only just getting used to having one other body in his bed, but Seb's presense at his back was soothing. Even with the injuries Sherlock had inflicted on him, Sherlock was confident the bodyguard wouldn't take revenge while he slept. A bond had started to form.

Sherlock let his eyes close. The stroking over his hip and Jim's steady breathing while wrapped in his arms lulled Sherlock into unconsciousness.


	12. Chapter 12

Several days later saw Jim on the phone more often than not. He rarely spoke, but texting was such a focused experience for him that it might as well have been a face to face conversation. The necklace had been delivered to their client smoothly and Sebastian had been rewarded for his efforts with only more work. Jim kept him busy, picking up jobs here and there that were too dull for Jim's tastes, but kept the network flowing. 

He hadn't forgotten his promise to Sherlock though. He began taking calls in the guise of an odd persona - a weaselly man named Rodney who had an unusually high voice and one too many nervous ticks. He said he worked for Moriarty and was greatly interested in the amount of money one Mrs. Holloway was offering to find her late husband's killer. 

Mrs. Holloway was, understandably, quite cautious at first. Especially concerning her second request - that upon his discovery, the man should be coldly disposed of. But Jim warmed her up over a series of the calls in which Rodney's odd behavior became progressively engaging, winning her over with meek charm. 

Unfortunately for Sherlock, he had the misfortune to overhear most of the ruse. 

Sherlock was going mad with the tedium. The overheard snippets of conversation were enough to make him chomp at the bit, yet Jim had insisted that he not get a head start. Sherlock would get his task once the deal was secure, but until then he wasn't to cheat and research the case.

Sherlock's one attempt to circumvent Jim's restriction had ended badly - the criminal had known he'd been going to try to poke around online for clues, and Sherlock's access for the day had been summarily cut off. He'd sulked in his room for as long as he could bear it, muttering to Eli about the downfalls of having another person know his mind so well.

When the detective finally returned to the den, Jim was still engaged in his networking. Sherlock stalked off towards the kitchen and reminded himself to ask Seb for a favor when he got back. If the delay lasted much longer, Sherlock would rather try to alleviate the boredom with experiments than spend the downtime drowning in ennui.

He wasn't long in the kitchen before he was interrupted with the patter of footsteps. Too small to be Sebastian's, and no click of the door. Jim turned up around the corner and his eyes alighted on Sherlock with a pleasantly subdued excitement. The look was more directed than he'd given Sherlock in days, and it didn't take a detective to tell he had good news. He slinked around the edge of the table and fell into a seat opposite Sherlock, smile too wide and eyes too knowing. "You've been _so_ patient," Jim purred. "And I have a present for you." 

Sherlock straightened. He knew what he was hoping for, but Jim might have something else in mind rather than the cold murder case. "Better than what you gave Seb, I should hope. Fund transfers and simple burgleries are frightfully dull." Sherlock was surprised that Seb could tolerate it. Perhaps the blond didn't care what the task was, so long as Jim gave it to him.

Jim leveled him with a look that plainly said he should know better. "Sebastian keeps the work running, as I could hardly care less. No, for _you_ I wanted something a bit more…interesting. To that end, Mrs. Holloway has finally agreed to our terms on finding the poor, deceased Mr. Holloway's murderer."   
Jim's small, plush lips lengthened into a grin. "And the case, I am pleased to say, is all yours."

Sherlock couldn't quite keep an answering smile from creeping into place. He fairly vibrated with interest. "25 years cold. It should prove a bit of a challenge, at least. Poison, from what I gathered while hearing your conversations." Sherlock set down the mug of tea he'd been drinking and steepled his fingers. "Let's hope the perpetrator is still alive to catch. How much _is_ she paying you, out of curiosity?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "More than his death is worth. If he is, in fact, a he," he added with a wink and reached for the tea. Jim poured himself a cup slowly, enjoying the moment. "It doesn't matter. She pays enough to make it worth her while, and in return I get an interesting job. And this would be your first, officially. It wouldn't be worth it if you didn't enjoy it." Jim sat back and held the steaming cup in his hands, watching the anticipation creep into the detective's every pore, inch by inch. 

Sherlock refreshed his own cup, regarding Jim in silence for a moment. "I live for the Game. You know that." Sherlock knew that Jim had hand picked this job on purpose. It was close enough to the sorts of cases he used to take on, but with a twist at the conclusion, something that carried into Jim's sphere of influence. The detective had the prime suspect go down in a hail of police bullets once or twice at the end of the chase, but never with him pulling the trigger. He'd slain others in some arguable forms of self-defense, but not ever been tasked with tracking an individual down for the express purpose of ending their life. "I take it my computer privileges have been restored. Am I being given the freedom to pursue the entire job alone?"

Jim's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes, all that. Anything you wish is at your disposal now. There wouldn't be much of a Game if I let you get a head start, now would there?" Like two conspirators they sat with their tea cups held before them and grins on their faces, each envisioning the next step in the enterprise they were about to embark upon. Jim would want to watch, surely, but he would stand by his word. 

"You promised, remember. I get this case to myself. No assistance unless I ask for it." Sherlock wanted to impress Jim. They both knew as much; it didn't need to be said aloud. He wanted to solve the case and complete the job on his own steam in order to show Jim that he was up to the task. That Jim would stay by his side during the process, observing everything, was both pleasing and stressful. Sherlock didn't just want to perform _well_ , he wanted to make Jim light up with that look of awe Sherlock had only seen a few times before.

Jim's head tilted the other way in absolute pleasure. Sherlock sensed his element, and he was eating right out of Jim's palm. Their short time together was doing wonders. Jim couldn't help himself, he rose and moved around the countertop. He turned Sherlock's stool to him and placed himself upon the man's lap, grinning wide, excited because Sherlock was excited. A feedback loop. "I did promise. And I intend to keep to my word." 

"Good." Sherlock's arms wrapped around the smaller man automatically and he leaned in, touched their foreheads together. It occurred to Sherlock that he might have been trained - Jim's happiness was beginning to be associated with his own, enough that he felt an active desire to please him. Not all the time, of course, but often enough. "So, do I get the full name of my client, or do I have to guess that as well?"

Jim chuckled. His breath tickled over Sherlock's nose. "Jane Holloway. The deceased being one Mr. Leonard Holloway. You may recognize him, murdered on the verge of his burgeoning career in cinema. He died just famous enough to leave Mrs. Holloway to a life of creature comforts. Very thoughtful of him." Jim smirked and ate up the look Sherlock's curious eyes gave him. The detective absorbed everything, and Jim loved having him hanging on every word. 

"I've never followed the film industry, actually." Which might not be a disadvantage in this case. Anyone who followed Hollywood gossip and maneuverings might have preconceptions that would interfere with examining the evidence in an unbiased manner. Since Sherlock was unfamiliar with him, he'd be building his theories on a clean slate. "Just one of those things. I never heard the end of it when I still worked with the Met. They'd attempt to irritate me with pop culture references." 

Jim was fighting a pout, but obviously amused underneath it. His hand stroked a line down Sherlock's silk shirt. "Surprisingly useful knowledge on occasion," he mused, "but overall, vastly inane." He bunched and twisted the material in his fingers. "The idea that they tried to hold it over your intellect is laughable." He turned his head and whispered into Sherlock's ear. "Tell me how you could _stomach_ playing with such vapid personalities."

"It was a very near thing," Sherlock laughed quietly. "It was fun to wind a few of them up, if effortless." And how that had backfired in the end, bringing the smouldering resentment that had led Donovan to want to believe him guilty and work to set him up. He curled around Jim and tried to put her screams out of his head. "I had to play with them in order to get what I needed. If I didn't get that, I would have ended back on the streets, trying to keep my mind from tearing itself apart."

Jim arched his back and pulled just far enough away for Sherlock to see him. There was that fire in his eyes again. "No more. Your days of solitary confinement are over." As were Jim's, the criminal did not mention, but it lay at the root of his words. With one last press of their temples together, Jim's eyes closing in the moment, he slid off Sherlock. His lips turned up and he gave the detective a wink. "Whenever you're ready, love." 

"Am I ever not?" Sherlock set down his mug and stretched. He'd sensed a tension underneath it all upon mentioning that piece of his past. The fact that he was still using was one particular spectre that hung between them, yet had gone unaddressed. Sherlock knew it bothered Jim, even if the drugs were not obviously hindering his mental faculties. 

While he'd only fallen back into the habit out of despair, grief, and a means of escape, the claws had sunk in deep. He was no longer distraught by Jim's presense or his current life. Deep sorrow still lingered whenever he thought of John, but it was addiction that held him. Jim wasn't given him other addictions to wean him away from the drugs, if that was his intent. All he was doing was adding more things for Sherlock to crave.

"First things first, I suppose. Research."

The little criminal's grin was all teeth. Jim was not a creature of abstinence and moderation. He'd stacked the game for Sherlock and was just as eager to see him start. He rocked back on his heels and shooed at Sherlock with his fingers. "Off you go, then! But you mustn't mind if I tag along for the ride when you do run out on the chase. I'd love a good show." 

Sherlock peered at him curiously. "James Moriarty, taken enough to descend and indulge in a little legwork? Is this your attempt at flattery, or do you just not want me out of your sight?" If Sherlock was truthful, he was a little flattered. He'd always enjoyed having an audience, particularly one that already regarded him with favor. "Not that I'm objecting. You're more than welcome to accompany me."

"Sherlock Holmes," Jim chided back, "haven't you noticed that when you're concerned, I can't get enough 'legwork'?" It was true, when Jim had been luring Sherlock's interest, he'd gone on hiatus and done nothing _but_ legwork. Jim may prefer to dictate from a lofty seat in the shadows, but he thrived in anonymity among the faceless throng, and there was nothing more rousing than Sherlock's particular brand of fun slowly merging with his own.

The detective grinned at that, winding his way through the kitchen to the living room and the laptop Jim had left on the sofa. His long legs stretched out and took up the whole length of the furniture as he settled himself and booted up the computer. "I've noticed. Your sentimentality borders upon obsession, but I'm rather touched."

Jim shined under the warmth of the kitchen track lights. For a moment, with his hands in his pockets and leaning back with that smile on his face, he looked like Richard, warm and bright and almost shy. When it passed, he looked more like himself, but whatever had been there hadn't been fake. It was strangely, genuinely Jim. He turned back to the kitchen, humming excitedly and busying himself with rummaging through the refrigerator. When he'd refilled his tea, he joined Sherlock in the living room and curled up in a corner of the opposite sofa with his phone. 

Sherlock's fingers danced across the keyboard. He pulled article after article, grainy scans of photographs and old newspaper clippings. 25 years after the murder, there wasn't much of an online trail like a current case might have left. Sherlock had to wade past sad tributes made by fans only to find a dearth of real content. 

Almost as populous as the maudlin laments for a career cut short were the conspiracy theory web postings. The paranoid and creative always enjoyed a good unsolved mystery, especially when attached to a compelling face and story. Crack theories could often come in handy, but Sherlock wanted to have the official forensics data before he sifted through the more fanciful theories. 

A few clicks brought up the web pages for the FBI and the police force local to the murder scene. Sherlock steepled his fingers and thought, trying to recall the tricks he'd seen before. He'd never sunk much time into learning digital penetration techniques. He was acutely aware of Jim's presence on the opposite sofa, watching him. Sherlock didn't want to have to ask for help this soon into the game. He didn't want to ask for help _at all_.

Jim's lips twitched into a little smirk, but he looked down at his phone and didn't look up. Casually, he sipped from his tea before stroking his thumb over the screen. "You do know I can monitor your wifi activity, don't you? You are on the network, after all, and not masking your packet requests."

Sherlock's hands stilled. The look he gave Jim, when he finally turned his head, was pure annoyance. Sherlock didn't care to be upstaged or outsmarted, even in areas that were not his expertise. Particularly so when he wanted to _impress_ , not disappoint. "I see. I was wondering why you were content to perch even this far away if you were so keen on watching my progress."

Jim did not look disappointed in the least at Sherlock's hesitation. "Might I make a suggestion?" The criminal's dark eyes darted up to fix on him. "Jack Crawford is the director of the Behavioral Science division. Access at that level would allow you perusal of any national case files but those of the highest level. I would be willing to bet that the password on his personal email account is far less secure than the one he uses for Big Brother. Determine that and you will be able to contact any systems administrator for the FBI you like, take on the alias of Crawford here, who….say, is perhaps out of town and needs to SSH into the server, and would like to know whether their root password is still 88j4bb3rw0cky88, or whether they've updated it since last week? You should get a response shortly enough." Jim sipped his tea and gave Sherlock a sly smile. "As that was the password he used the last time I needed to get inside the FBI's little network of stooges."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and regarded Jim in silence. His fingers itched to move forward with the piece he'd been given, but at the same time it felt like... cheating. Like he was a struggling child and a parental figure had decided to make things easier on him, rather than waiting for him to stumble and ask for him. The feeling immediately channeled resentment and aching sorrow; he had Mycroft to thank for that. "And what about masking my packet requests?"

Jim was leaning closer, drawn as though unaware of it a flower opening for the sun. His gaze still held no disappointment, not a single trace. He leaned so far that in no time he was off the sofa, sliding easily over the carpet in one smooth motion until he was at Sherlock's side, bent at the knee. "This program here. This will route your connection through several layers of proxies, each with three levels of PGP encryption, combined with everyone else's connections routed through the same network, from the same exit node. Virtually untraceable." 

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, but opened the program just the same. A quick glance told him it should be simple enough to operate, for his purposes at least. His gaze turned back and lingered over Jim's form, still there, still leaning close enough that all he had to do was reach out and touch. The thought had barely registered before he felt Jim's chest beneath his palm, warm and solid underneath the layers of cloth. Dark eyes were still fixed on him. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Never browse without this, and know that without SSL encryption, the proxy your connection exits through will be able to see any data you send. Choose one with heavy traffic and when you're finished, switch before personal browsing." Jim turned his head and pressed his lips to Sherlock's ear. "Besides that, _have fun_."

The turn of Jim's mood pulled a smile from Sherlock and lit him up from within. He gave Jim one last, knowing glance and turned his attention back to the laptop. There would be time enough for that after he was done. Jim would understand. Once he sunk his teeth into a case, he immersed himself until the end. The Game would take precedence over everything, including food and sleep.

Jim have a deep chuckle and swept away, back to his position on the opposite sofa. He immersed himself in his phone once again, even though he'd no longer be able to monitor Sherlock's progress, and stole coy glances at the detective every once in a while. Jim was enjoying this immensely, perhaps even more than Sherlock was, for he did not have the added nerves the detective had about performing. Jim rather seemed excited to share. 

Sherlock lost himself in the hunt. Jim's suggested ploy worked like a charm, gaining him access to the relevant files. Or, rather, what was left of them. There were frustratingly large gaps in the documentation, and Sherlock hissed through his teeth when he discovered precisely why. As used to ineptitude from law enforcement as he was, he had expected better from the FBI at the very least.

_Lost_. Evidence had been _lost_. Sabotaged, possibly, but misplaced was more likely. The piecemeal that was left was insufficient to draw any solid conclusions about the identity of the killer. Sherlock saved what he could, then logged out of the databases. Angry as he was, he was also a bit pleased. Fragmented data would only add to the challenge.

JIm raised a curious brow. "Something not quite to your liking?" 

The cup of tea was set on the end table beside him and Jim set his phone face down over his knee. He watched Sherlock with subdued anticipation, feet curled under him and barely taking up a quarter of the sofa, but with the energy in him leaving him ready to spring forth at a word. 

"Incompetance. Not only did the authorities fail to solve the case, they lost the bulk of the evidence. One would hope this isn't representative of their standard operating practices, or it would surprise me that they ever solve anything at all."

Sherlock clicked back into the pages he'd saved for later perusal: gossip and conspiracy theories. "Doesn't mean the case is permanently cold, just that it will require more work and other avenues for obtaining data. I don't suppose it'd be possible to actually visit the scene of the crime and interview the widow?"

Jim's lips spread. "I don't think Mrs. Holloway would mind overly much if Rodney were to bring her a private investigator. Not at all. I do think we'll need to give you a decent disguise, however. She isn't one to miss a bit of gossip, even if it comes from across the pond." 

Jim rose again and swept his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock enjoyed the touch without responding; his mind was elsewhere, picking through the threads that were left online. He was beginning to draw up a list of possibilities. Cliché as it was, it was most likely that the murder was perpetrated by a fan, not a competitor. What didn't make sense was the particular viciousness of the manner of execution - normally a crazed fan would go for a traditional method, want to get up close and personal and execute the object of their obsession with a more intimate sort of violence. Mr. Holloway had been poisoned, stealthily, in a manner that left him slowly and irreversibly dying over a period of weeks. Unless the murderer had been a close friend or member of the family, they wouldn't have been able to watch the degeneration or observe the moment of death.

"That will be fine. I have a few ideas, but I want to rule out the impossibilities. The gaps in the evidence may end up telling me as much as the solid data that's remained."

"Then come. It is not too late in the day for Mrs. Holloway to entertain visitors. And I believe you would make a fine pass for a redhead, don't you?" Jim mused. He turned to the bathroom and winked at Sherlock over his shoulder. 

Surely Jim had his own ideas about the case. He had after all, spoken with Mrs. Holloway for several days, but he wasn't sharing them. This was Sherlock's case, and as enthusiastic as he was to solve it with the detective, Sherlock wouldn't want him to. 

Sherlock watched him go and wondered for a moment if his ears had failed him. He saved links to everything for later perusal and shut down the program, then stood. Jim had disappeared into the bathroom and a series of small sounds were issuing from the partially-open door. Sherlock cautiously wandered closer. He wasn't averse to doing whatever was necessary to get a lead on a case, but normally any alterations he made were exceedingly temporary. From the sound of things, Jim was intent on actually _dying_ his hair. Ginger, no less.

When Sherlock rounded the corner, Jim had placed several bottles of foundation, creams, and pencils over the expansive countertop of the sink. He turned and went into a closet, one that looked to be quite deep, and returned with a delicately fashioned, tawny ginger wig. He cocked his head, patting the countertop for Sherlock to sit, and poorly surprised a smirk at the sight of relief on the detective's face. 

Sherlock gestured at the bottles before he complied, perching himself on the ledge so Jim could get to work. "You were going to get an earful if you'd actually planned to dye my hair," he murmured. He and Mycroft had always looked rather dissimilar and Sherlock preferred to keep it that way. 

"I would prefer to keep your hair as it is," Jim giggled before wetting his hands and stroking Sherlock's hair back from his face to lay flat against this scalp. He didn't need much of the creams, Sherlock's skin was light enough and too much would have been noticeable as makeup, but Jim dabbed his fingers in a bit of red and rubbed it over Sherlock's cheeks and under his eyes, giving them a rosy tint. He leaned against the countertop between Sherlock's spread knees and carefully dotted brown freckles down the man's nose, over his high cheekbones and lightly across his forehead. He even brushed Sherlock's brows this way and that, separating the strands to make them appear lighter than they were. Jim's work was very subtle, but it was done expertly. When he was finished, he made sure Sherlock's hair was flattened back and fitted the tawny colored wig over his scalp. The hair was straight, and nothing like Sherlock's own, but with the change in his complexion, it fit him. 

Sherlock couldn't quite suppress his grimace when he turned and caught a glance of his reflection. It was very good, very convincing. It was also not a look he cared to see on himself, but he wouldn't be the one looking at the facade. All he had to do was act the part. "Where should we tell Mrs. Holloway I'm from, do you think? County Clare?" he asked, slipping into a slight lilt. Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile when Jim's dark eyes fixed on him in response.

"Just tell her I fished you out of the river, hm?" Jim's eyes narrowed. His own persona, Rodney, was purely American. From the Italian side of New York, if anything, and Jim matched the accent very well. He turned to the mirror and then turned to the closet again. With Jim's dark hair slicked back and a change of attire, a much cheaper, less fitted silk suit, and a sleazy smile plastered on his face, he looked the part. 

Sherlock laughed. "Perhaps someday you'll tell me why that's such a sore spot." He'd been in Jim's head, but only so far. His curiosity was whetted, but he hadn't had enough time yet to go digging in all the dark corners of Jim's mind. Sherlock slid off the counter and moved to stand next to Jim, fairly towering over him.

"Perhaps." Jim's eyes moved from him to the mirror. 

They made quite a pair like that. They didn't look like they belonged together at all, and yet there was a certain quality of otherness to them. It might have come from the knowledge that these two men were supposedly criminals for hire, two beings from the bottom of the barrel. 

"Grey, I think," Jim murmured, looking up and down Sherlock. He went into the closet, rummaged for quite a lot longer, and found the man a grey suit and slacks. The clothing Jim had bought for Sherlock would have been far too nice. 

Sherlock set the offered clothing on the counter and began to strip down. He could feel Jim's gaze all the while, twin points of heat that fixed on him whether he looked back or not. "Is this a novelty, compared to your usual line of work? I should think you aren't asked to _solve_ crimes terribly often. Your skill seems to lie in construction, rather than dismantling."

Jim leaned his hip against the counter. "It is. For the most part. Offers to find a man in the name of petty vengeance do come up quite often, but yes, construction is usually my specialty. The bolder, the more interesting, the better, but there is not often another around who can appreciate the intricacies of what I've done." Jim cracked his neck. "Until you came along."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "Points for the self-flattery." His words were tempered with a fond look, settling on the arc of neck just visible above Jim's collar. "So I'm a complimentary skillset to what you can offer clients. Someone who can find the right thread to tug to make everything unravel at the seams."

"Aren't the best partners always are?" Jim's mouth pulled into a closed smile. "But no, not for my clients. Not for the money. Not for any of _them_ or their recognition," he nodded to the window, "but for _me_. You and I are magnificent creatures. We can revel in that alone." 

Sherlock regarded Jim quietly for a moment. His words resonated on a deep level, bringing up recollections of the connection they'd formed. The way they'd gotten into each other's minds. The way Jim had only had a small taste, and that had been enough to dog his footsteps for the rest of his life until he got what he wanted. Or perhaps _needed_ was more accurate. "Did you enjoy the rivalry, when we were on opposite sides?"

"Oh yes." A spark of heat reflected in Jim's eyes. "It was still just you…and me….and no one else could see, could they? The Game we were playing. Not the Met, not your little friend, and not even your brother. Only. You. Could understand. I could have played with you like that for a very long time, but I couldn't have lead you on forever. You came to know my mind through my work in return, yes. But we deserved more. And I _needed_ you."

"Needed me." Sherlock turned the words over. He could see how that was true, how Jim had considered things to be flirting, courting, even if they hadn't been speaking directly to one another. "We could still play that Game, you know. Amuse ourselves by building sandcastles to tear down." Sherlock couldn't imagine that anyone could stand against both of them working together.

Jim moved up to him with something electric creeping into his eyes. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, we could." And he seemed to like that idea very much. This case he was giving Sherlock now, was a step in that direction. In both of those directions, rather. Jim was bound to escalate things if Sherlock continued to be as interested in the work as he was becoming, and if he did, the whole world would become their playground. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. The atmosphere between them was getting heavy and charged, and Sherlock didn't know when he'd get back on track if he let Jim sidetrack him now. "We should go. I would prefer to interview Mrs. Holloway sooner, rather than later." The widow's testimony might hold clues to narrow the focus of his search.

Jim, toe to toe with Sherlock, breathed out one long exhale. But it wasn't quite a sign of agitation, he was far too swept up in Sherlock's enthusiasm. Jim was rather enjoying the moment. "Off we go, then."

They left the apartments with one of Jim's drivers, but a car they hadn't used. Still, no expenses were spared in their presentation for Mrs. Holloway. Jim rang her on the drive, Rodney seeping through his every syllable, and at that point she was more than eager to have them if a bit flustered on short notice. She was after all, on her last dime and feigning not to be, especially since she had paid Jim. 

They drove upstate. Mrs. Holloway had retired herself to an estate in hopes of leading the quiet, yet dignified life of a moneyed widow. 

Sherlock was quiet and withdrawn as they rode, his mind turning over the few facts he'd managed to dig up thus far. Solid information was sparse, a few puzzle pieces that gave only the fuzziest impression of the whole. Jim's presence was an odd, thrumming energy at his side, distracting and comforting all at once, settling into his bones without even needing the medium of physical touch.

Sherlock's attention sharpened once they drew close to the estate. The property was spacious and impressive, even by sprawling American standards, yet small signs of neglect and thrift could be seen here and there. There was a slight roughness to the landscaping, a dullness to the house's exterior that said it hadn't been painted for a few years. Small bits of rust could be seen around the edges of the mailbox if one looked properly. Mrs. Holloway had money, but it was of limited supply, enough that she was worried about it drying up and was cutting corners accordingly.

One might have suspected she had plans for reemerging in the public eye once she'd discovered the cause of her husband's death and secured the fate of his killer. 

"Perhaps she plans to write a book," Jim mused with his chin planted in his hand and his elbow on the door. He knew very well that Mrs. Holloway would likely reveal the mystery when they were finished, but occasionally, he liked to make a nuisance of himself and reflect about such trivial things aloud.

They pulled into the long drive and stepped out of the car. The driver was someone new, he and Sherlock had not been acquainted and he was not told who Moriarty was, only that Moriarty wished him to protect this man, Rodney, and his associate for the duration of the job. 

Jim looked Sherlock up and down quickly. "I think I'll call you Pat," he said before the front doors flung open and an elderly woman strode toward them. Her hair was dyed and loose and flowing behind her almost as much as the expensive shawls she wore. Jim easily turned his smile to her. "Ah, Mrs. Holloway!"

"Rodney, I presume," she greeted them but couldn't help pulling the shawls tighter around her. They were much too light for the chill in the air. "I am so glad you could make it." 

"Mrs. Holloway, I would like you to meet my colleague, Pat," Jim turned to Sherlock with an overly toothy smile. "You will not be disappointed with his work, I assure you he is the best at what he does."

Sherlock swallowed down his grimace at the name. It was perfect for the slightly off-color personas they had donned, just not to his tastes. "Mrs. Holloway." He inclined his head respectfully, slipping into the hollow charm he occasionally adopted when he needed to make eyewitnesses pliable. "A pleasure. I hope we didn't interrupt anything by dropping by at such short notice...?"

"Oh no, no not at all! But come in, out of the cold. I've just had some friends over, you see." She began drawing them up the short walk with her, moving very spritely for a woman of her age. It was clear from her lavish amount of dress and the presence of company that she very much intended to impress this Rodney and his employer, not only to gain their services. This subtle desperation was one of the most obvious, if not the very, sign that her way of life was on its way out and had been for some time. Unfortunately, extra witnesses to Sherlock's 'talents' would not be very conducive to avoiding notice. 

"I don't suppose we could trouble you further by taking our conversation somewhere private?" Sherlock asked. "Given the nature of our agreement, it is best to have as few witnesses as possible. Gossip mills can be terrible liabilities, even if no harm is intended. It would be rather tragic to discover the culprit only to find that they caught a whiff of the danger by watching the news and went underground before justice could be served."

"Oh," Mrs. Holloway looked a little disappointed at that, but still turned an expression of concern on Sherlock. "Do you really think so?" 

Jim instantly turned on the charm in return, giving her large, soulful eyes and an equally concerned, equally fake face while taking her hand. "Absolutely. No one can know; it's for the best. Our employer's strict orders, I'm afraid." He gave her a little smile, and in it's own way, it was almost charming. 

"Just think of how exciting it will be to share the news when the murderer _is_ discovered and dealt with," Sherlock added, just to give the woman one last nudge towards compliance. Her personality had been easy to read; she wanted the comfort and support of her social group, feelings of self-righteousness and certain victory, and it would lead to foolish decisions and loose lips unless checked. They had to bank on the fact that Mrs. Holloway wanted revenge more than she wanted to bask in the excited flurry of a group of friends brought into a conspiracy.

Fortunately, Jim seemed to be taking care of her just fine. She responded readily to the persona of Rodney, off-beat as he was. He had taken her in through their conversations and he, as far as she knew, had his boss to back him. Whatever she had promised her company that afternoon was easily trumped by their wishes. 

"You just wait here then, down the hall in the sitting room. I'll let everyone know we're not to be disturbed." She hurried off. 

Sherlock waited until she was well out of earshot, then rounded on Jim. " _Pat_?" he hissed, putting the full weight of his disapproval into the single syllable. He wasn't used to playing personas in situations where he wasn't taking the lead. Having to work within someone else's construct was a new experience. "I'm surprised this woman could afford whatever you charged her. Even her guests have to have noticed the house is full of cheap replicas."

Jim just grinned wider and rocked back on his heels. "Sad, so sad, isn't it?" He yawned intentionally. "But fear not, as soon as it's assured we're alone, you'll have your moment. She may be pathetic, but she does have a good mystery." 

They moved to the sitting room she had indicated and Jim silenced himself as soon as the woman's shoes echoed down the hall. It didn't take her very long to get rid of her guests. 

"Heavens," she exclaimed as she swept through the door, "I don't know how I can keep up with them all sometimes. Now have a seat, have a seat! And tell me what you can. Lord knows the police couldn't, even back then." 

"With good reason. They bungled the case, failed to spot critical evidence, and lost quite a lot of what they did find." Sherlock had little patience for the widow's grandiose act. Clearly she still had at least some emotional attachment to her deceased husband, but it had dulled over time and transformed into something petty, something ugly. This was no longer completely about closure and revenge, but about scandalous revelations, one more intoxicating hit of fame, and money from the inevitable book sales and licensing.

"Your husband was deliberately poisoned by someone who was able to get close enough to lace his food or drink. That much is well known. Given the symptoms, the most likely type of poison would have been thallium - it has to be ingested, and symptoms appear within one to three days, death occurring six weeks later, which means we have a definitive window of time to examine. Anyone who could have interfered with a consumable is a potential suspect. We'll have to determine the sequence of events for those three days and see how much corresponding evidence remains to indicate one suspect above the others."

"Thallium is obtained from very specific sources, so we can cross-reference potential suspects against those who would have the means to obtain or derive it. This should narrow the list considerably. What remains to be seen is the motive. A great deal of fuss was made about the fact that death occurred right on the cusp of major success. While the murder could have been carried out or directed by a rival who felt threatened by Mr. Holloway's burgeoning career, I think it more likely that he was killed by a fan. Perhaps one that was a recognizable face, dismissed as harmless by security, relatively inoffensive up to that point, and thus able to slip closer than a stranger might."

Rodney, now sitting across from Mrs. Holloway, grinned and leaned back, ready to play the game where Sherlock wasn't. "See now? Didn't I tell you he was good?"

The woman listened with rapt attention. "The police had us go over everything in the days prior, from what he ate in the mornings to when he went to the diner to the party we held after two magazines in the same month did an expose on him, and not a one of their suspects followed through!" She slumped back in her chair incredulously. "Honestly, I _barely_ remember the fans. There were so _many_."

"Chemistry is a bit of a specialty of mine. Only a gram of thallium is needed to kill, but it would still have to be dissolved or sufficiently hidden in whatever he consumed. The murderer also targeted only your husband, obviously, so they were close enough to ensure that only he ingested tainted food. From the reports, the most likely moments were either infiltrating the kitchen at the hotel and poisoning the breakfast plate they guessed was for your husband, or infiltrating the party as a waiter and hand-delivering the food to ensure it reached him and only him. The party is the more likely of the two options," Sherlock added. 

"Poisoning your breakfast would have been too tempting, to ensure the kill succeeded, had that been the contact point. As well, killers of this nature often want to get up close and personal, see their handiwork. Since they wouldn't be able to ensure they'd see the point of death, it is likely they would want to be close enough to see the moment of consumption."

Mrs. Holloway thought back, but already looked like she was giving up. "It was so long ago. The police had a list of everyone at the party and everyone who'd seen him before he became ill…I just don't remember. All I know is the ladies on the wait staff all looked the same to me," she gave a huff an indignant roll of her eyes, "I couldn't have been _bothered_ to tell them apart, if you know what I mean. The tight little outfits they wore…." 

Rodney was nodding along to her words, engaged at every step. "Mr. Holloway's kind of party, then?"   
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, eager to draw attention to what she had to put up with, "I don't think there was a man among them, or one over twenty!" 

Sherlock nodded absently. It fit with the profile he was building in his mind, a tentative outline made from a scattering of surviving clues. "Do you recall any fans who managed to get past security at the hospital, once your husband was transported there? Particularly towards the last week." Killing done due to an obsession would have made it difficult to stay away, especially after following weeks of news coverage as the victim slowly degenerated.

"Oh I know there were a few who tried, more than a few." Mrs. Holloway was bordering on boasting. "But none of them ever succeeded. We kept up a pretty good amount of security by then." She switched gears quite suddenly, perhaps realizing it was time to appeal to their sympathies again, "Poor Leonard…," she reached across for Jim, directing his undivided attention, "You must understand, I'm not a cruel woman. But I haven't slept well for 25 years knowing this murderer is out there. I'm afraid, and I can't bear the thought of this man walking free another day. I'm really doing it for Leo, you know?" 

"Mrs. Holloway, we understand completely," Jim reassured her with sympathy. "Now this party, was it held here, in this house?" 

"Why yes, in fact it was," she quickly regained her composure. 

"I need to know precisely where." Sherlock got to his feet and resisted an urge to tug his ill-fitting suit into better shape. "The rooms that guests could freely access, where food was served, where it was prepared." There wouldn't be much physical evidence left after all this time and with countless other visitors occupying the space in the subsequent years, but retracing the area would help.

Sherlock needed every scrap of information he could get.

Mrs. Holloway lead them through the main dining hall and the drawing room, which opened to the pack patio where guests had danced and socialized, then to the kitchen where the catering was prepared. "Everything was done here, and they used the two adjacent rooms for storage and the like, silverware, pots and things, waiting dishes. The house was open to the public, but almost everyone stayed here on the first floor and the patio. I didn't spend much time in the kitchen myself of course, but well, I only remember the waitresses coming and going from there. Honestly I don't remember a thing out of place." 

Sherlock walked the perimeter of the kitchen with care, noting everything. The chefs had all been listed in the police report, at the very least, so he had all of those names. None of them would be the killer, however. That would have been too obvious, and even the police would have caught the murderer had they been so thoughtless.

Seeing the space gave Sherlock a better picture, however. With so many catering staff crammed into such a small space, rushing about, one more face wouldn't have attracted much notice. Prepared dishes would have been left on the central island, over there, to be picked up by one of the wait staff and carried out. "Were the waiters assigned specific tables?"

"Well, I think so…we had one waitress for most of the night, but you know how these things are, we ordered this and that from any one that was passing by." Mrs. Holloway fluttered her hands in uncertainty. "There must have been at least three or four we spoke to that night. And Leonard had drinks with so many people, we were never really able to say how many had touched his food." Her mouth was a thin line of displeasure, but Jim gave her a consoling nod. 

"You never had a copy of that list the police made, of attendees as well as the staff?" Jim asked. 

"Oh I used to, but I'm afraid I've lost it years ago. I only have the original guest list, no one with catering. I couldn't believe it when they said they lost evidence in the case…." 

It would have been simple enough to get to the right table when things got busy. With guests making requests from anyone who passed by, the wait staff would have improved to ensure adequate service. Any one individual could have interacted with any of the tables if they picked the right moment. Sherlock's mouth set into a thin line.

He stalked to the edges of the kitchen and, sure enough, it wasn't completely sectioned off from the rest of the house. Besides the doorway leading out into the dining room, there was a back door for supplies and a hallway leading off into another portion of the house. Two other possibilities for sneaking in, either under the guise of a delivery person or by attending as a guest, changing clothing, and sneaking in from the back hallway. "Was the food purchased directly, or did the caterers handle the ordering? Was it delivered?"

"Caterers handled everything," Mrs. Holloway rang her hands, "As far as we knew, they were the only ones who handled the food." 

"It may not be much, but we'd like your copy of the guest list if you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Holloway." Jim touched her elbow. 

"Of course, of course." Mrs. Holloway went to fetch it for them, moving quickly down the hall. 

Something subtle changed in Rodney the moment she was out of sight, with Jim showing through. He put his hands in his pockets and smiled at Sherlock. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at Jim. "Satisfied thus far?" he asked quietly. "Do you already have your own theories, or are you waiting to see what I come up with?" Sherlock didn't have a solid list of suspects yet, but his instincts were leading him in a particular direction. He was confident that the culprit _could_ be found, even with so many intervening years and such disjointed remaining evidence.  
.   
"I have a theory, to a point, but I'm interested in seeing whether your investigations prove it correct." Jim leaned against the desk. He was enjoying himself. Whenever he looked at Sherlock, there was a conspiratorial glint in his eye, just at the corner, barely perceptible. 

Mrs. Holloway came back with an old, but well kept, guest book in hand. A rich blue and leather bound, she opened it to the date of the party and handed it to Sherlock. "Here you are."

Sherlock skimmed through the list of names. It was simple enough to store them for later retrieval. Once he was done, he closed the book and handed it back, smiling at the surprised expression on Mrs. Holloway's face. Evidently she hadn't expected him to finish so quickly. "Thank you, that should be enough for now. We'll be in contact if we have further questions."

She glanced to Rodney, who gave her a blinding smile. "O-okay, well, if that's all you need…. I really can't tell you how glad I am you've come. Let me see you to the door." 

"It's our pleasure, Mrs. Holloway," Jim moved to her side and she went on to flatter him with appreciation, and to further impress upon him that she was not often involved in the sort of business Moriarty dealt with, merely a woman at the end of her rope. Their exchange was rather distasteful in its falsity, but she played it up for all it was worth. Their goodbyes at the door were short with Sherlock avoiding the pleasantries and Jim having to follow quickly, but he left her with assurances that they would be in touch. 

Sherlock kept his expression schooled into pleasantly neutral lines until they were safely ensconced in the car. "It's mildly depressing that she thinks she's fooling anyone," he muttered. "Completely transparent. Her social acquaintances are either daft or equally cutthroat, staying just close enough to watch her go to ruins. So to speak." And people wondered why he was unsocial. 

Jim sighed beside him. "Our killer, on the other hand, might perhaps turn out to be somewhat more entertaining." He leaned back and smiled as they drove on. 

"Mildly clever, at least. And an unusual choice of weapon. A slow, painful, death over a six week period from an irreversible poison? Honestly, I'm surprised it took the doctors as long as it did to put the poor sod out of his misery, celebrity or no. People are so fixated on staving off death on general principle that they never seem to reflect upon what quality of life they're preserving." Surely Mr. Holloway hadn't actually _wanted_ to die by slowly hemorrhaging blood from every orifice, including the pores of his skin.

"The guest list is entirely too obvious. It's unlikely our killer was an invitee, which means they were either a temporary hire among the staff servicing the event, or they snuck onto the property to pose as the same."

"And without the full list of names and no one to remember an odd face…that will be quite difficult to determine," Jim hummed, pleased. "You're going to have to start searching through fan mail soon," he giggled. Jim turned to Sherlock and drew his legs underneath him on the seat, leaning into the man. Shoulder to shoulder, he pressed himself to Sherlock, soaking up the very presence of the man. 

Their driver surely thought it odd, but he kept his eyes on the road. 

Jim's touch would have been welcome, but for the fact that Sherlock was still locked into case mode. The smaller body at his side derailed his thoughts, turning them from considering his next move to acute attention of the way his skin warmed wherever Jim was close, and the lingering scent of Jim's aftershave. And, beneath it all, the musky, clean scent of skin. "I don't think we'll have to go quite that far," he murmured.

Inky black eyes turned to him. "Is my dearest detective onto something?" Jim whispered. He inclined his head to breathe against Sherlock's ear, not helping his concentration at all. "Tell me Sherlock, isn't this more fun with someone who can keep up?"

"You don't keep your hands to yourself nearly as much, and you aren't as impressed by the stream of connections." Pain jolted through Sherlock, remembering all the cab rides together with John. Recalling precisely the way he had sat, tilted towards him at a slight angle, blue eyes regarding him with awe. Hero worship, recognition of his abilities. Sherlock's mental image of the doctor changed, his gaze dulling with pain and disappointment, emphasizing the sorrowful lines in his face. "It's... different."

Jim didn't pull back, but he surely knew where Sherlock's mind had gone. He would have known what his comment would bring out in the detective the moment he said it. It seemed he was finally ready, or thought Sherlock was ready, to mention John. He reached up to draw a forefinger over Sherlock's brow, ignoring the fine strands of the wig that got in his way. "Yes, it is. But I am no less impressed with you," Jim murmured. 

"And how can that be?" Sherlock turned his head slightly, just enough to look at Jim directly. To verify the fact that his companion wasn't the same. "John's awe came from the fact that he could understand after sufficient explanation, but wasn’t' able to fathom how the connections were made beforehand. The results, but not the technique. I was a short step below a god, clothed in flesh, nearly worshipped. He was no less an addict than I, craving danger and hope and impossibilities made possible." Sherlock's gaze fell to his lap. "I was his drug, fulfilling everything he was craving until he craved more. I can... see that much, now. He wouldn't be full of desire any longer. His empathy outweighs his taste for dangerous people and situations."

Jim's hand turned into a claw, wrapping around Sherlock's long neck and wrenching him to meet Jim's gaze. Jim was seething with barely restrained emotion. "You don't think you do that for me?" he breathed, voice just above a whisper. "I _am_ a god. A very lonely one at that. I am _the only one_ who can see the connections you make for their true intricacy and you…" Jim pressed his brow to Sherlock's temple, grinding the bones together. "You are _absolutely_ my addiction." 

Turmoil was bubbling up inside the detective. Sherlock had been doing his best to dismiss the guilt and sorrow with distractions, drugs, disdain. Suppression only worked for so long before the matter was forced to the surface again. "You understand, and the magic is gone. Supplication and devotion is replaced. Less lonely, and with the strange sensation of finally being touched, but at a terrible price. You've reached in," Sherlock gestured towards his own ribcage, aware that his speech had turned into disjointed fragments that made little sense. "You pushed me off so I'd break, crack open just wide enough to steal everything inside. Hollow me out and slip into the empty space. I am not who I was anymore."

Jim closed his eyes and the softness of his lashes brushed against Sherlock's skin. "Don't mourn for what you've lost. You're not alone anymore. You've never needed magic, so transient and fickle; he was the one who needed magic. As fun as it was, it was all merely a pretty illusion." Jim's hand ran down the front of Sherlock's suit, over his sternum and pressed against his ribcage, warm skin acknowledging he understood what Sherlock had meant. 

"It's still broken. I can't make it go away." Sherlock's whisper came out in a rasp as his throat closed upon itself. It had been hours since his last hit, and the drugs were no longer truly effective at taking the pain away. They'd turned back into their own end. His muscles ached. "I've never quite gotten the hang of it. Mourning. I still see... his face, what's left of it. Staring back at me through the cracks, like he could see where I was hiding, even if no one else could." He'd never told another soul, except for Mycroft.

Jim bared his teeth. He looked about ready to crawl into Sherlock's lap, but they were almost back to the apartments. With both hands on Sherlock's head, he forced the man to look at him again. " _I_ see you," he hissed. "And I will never let you go." Jim didn't care, didn't care that he was making this harder for Sherlock, as he could surely tell that he was. His fingers dug into the tendons of Sherlock's neck. 

They pulled up to the kerb and that was the only thing that made Jim pull back. 

Sherlock bolted from the car as soon as Jim released him, stumbling out onto the pavement towards the doors. His skin felt too hot. Sherlock wanted to escape the conversation, escape confronting the situation, and that meant escaping Jim at the moment. Jim, with his fierce eyes and possessive, bruising fingers.

He made it through the doorway and to the lift call button.

It came before Jim could reach him. Jim, who climbed out of the car at a leisurely pace, who straightened his jacket as he turned even though it was a disguise. Jim, who had deliberately reminded him of the depths of his despair but also given him the gift of a case to fall into, to consume him. The dark haired man was just strolling through the front doors on the other side of the lobby when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. 

Sherlock stepped inside and pushed the button to close the doors. Metallic panels slid together and hid Jim from view. Sherlock couldn't even breathe a sigh of relief as the lift moved up towards the flat. Distress was rolling off of him in waves, in a way it hadn't for days now.

Sherlock stumbled out into the den, stopping only long enough to snatch the laptop up from where he'd left it on the sofa. He tucked the computer under his arm and retreated towards his rooms.

By the time Jim arrived, the apartment was silent and empty but for Sherlock's closed door. He stopped in the middle of the living room and sighed, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. 

Sherlock needed space, and if Jim didn't give it to him, it would only be worse. He had his work to occupy him, and that was the best the criminal could hope for. 

When he'd had his moment, Jim went to his rooms, leaving Sherlock on the other side of the apartment. 

Safely ensconced in his room, Sherlock broke. Old habits rose back to the surface, causing him to dip into the stash he'd procured. Rather than turn to hazy lethargy in an attempt to temporarily forget, he retrieved another friend. Needle slipped beneath the skin and turned everything to crackling electricity.

Sherlock plugged in the laptop, situated himself on the bed, and feverishly got to work.

Now that he was employing the security measures Jim had shown him, the criminal couldn't actually monitor his activity. At best he was able to tell that Sherlock was going somewhere, just not where exactly. 

Still, that was enough for Jim to know he was working on the case. He set his own laptop on the stand beside his bed, stripped the layers of Rodney from his shoulders, and lay down. He spread himself over the sheets, reaching out to feel where Sherlock had lain with him nights before, and nights before that. The detective's scent was only just lingering there. Jim turned onto his back and closed his eyes, letting his mind consume him. He replayed Sherlock's case, the details, the house, Mrs. Holloway, and even Sherlock himself. He moved onto larger plans, the case after this, and the case after that. The way cases would eventually turn into jobs, and the jobs would become more _interesting_. With Sherlock up there in his loft, even angry as he was, Jim was _inspired_ again. 

His fingers trailed over the dips and ridges in his stomach, pressing in at the flesh where it was soft. He thought about dark curls of hair and eyes cold as ice and they moved lower. 

Sherlock darted down to the kitchen for food once the hunger pangs became unbearable, then retreated back to his room with an armful of supplies. If he couldn't have victory over his personal problems, over his emotions, at the very least he could have victory over _this_.

Information leapt across the gaps and connected, forming threads that began to build a picture. Sherlock wove it together deftly, driven by a singular, manic focus. It burned through his mind almost as quickly as it burned through the food, leaving him hollow and shaking and still too hot.

His thoughts turned to Jim, and the hunger and rage sunk claws into the image. He was heading down the stairs a split second later, stalking towards Jim's room without even attempting to disguise his footsteps. The door hit the wall with a bang.

Jim's dark head snapped up. His hand stilled for a moment out of surprise, but once their eyes met he resumed palming himself through his trousers. The definition of Jim's hard length was visibly outlined against the fabric, as he'd been at it for a while. A small smile pulled at his lips and he propped himself up on an elbow to better meet Sherlock's furious gaze. 

"Need a break?" Jim purred. 

"Shut up." The detective slammed the door closed behind him, shedding clothing as he stalked towards the bed. His pulse was already racing.

Still Jim smiled up at him. Sherlock's eyes followed the curve, feeling another surge of anger at being mocked, and he heard a crack. The back of his knuckles stung, and it took a moment to realize that he'd just backhanded Jim without thinking. Barely _noticing_.

The smaller man was doubled over at the side of the bed, frozen from the sting or the shock until he slowly turned his head back to Sherlock. There was stillness between them for a moment, and in the next, Jim was launching himself off the bed and crashing into Sherlock, teeth bared and clawed hands scrabbling for purchase. 

Things rapidly degenerated into an animalistic struggle. Fingernails passed over skin, leaving bloody lines and imprints that would later blossom into vivid purple hues. Both men were full of manic energy, fighting with instinctual viciousness. Sherlock, for once, matched the intensity, and his longer limbs gave him the advantage. He regarded Jim with shocked, wide eyes when he managed to pin him to the floor. A grin crept into place slowly, revealing a line of teeth. "...got you."

Jim's mouth widened into smile of his own, wide and all teeth and elation. Getting this kind of a rise out of Sherlock was like ecstasy in his veins. Jim struggled, but he couldn't move. He squirmed in the taller man's grasp and wriggled beneath him, but Sherlock held fast. Every time Jim's eyes fell back to the detective's burning ones above him, the excitement coiled tighter in him. "Seems you have. So what are you going to do with me?" 

Sherlock looked absolutely crazed. Their tussle had caused his curls to stick up at impossible angles, only drawing more attention to his dilated pupils. He leaned closer, and it took Jim a moment to realize that Sherlock was _smelling_ him. "You stole from me. Everything. It's so empty it _aches_. I think..." 

Sherlock trailed off, his gaze following the line of Jim's neck. "...I think I'm hungry, and you owe me. I lost my worshipper, and you... will have to be the replacement."

Jim breathed out a dark laugh. He stared back into Sherlock, through the layers flesh and bone and anger to the neurons firing inside his head to form connections, thoughts, and feelings, pain and desire. And Jim understood. "Ahh….yes." His chest swelled and he tipped his head back to the floor, arching his neck and offering himself to Sherlock. There was no law that said one god could not adore another. 

Anger still smouldered beneath the surface, but Jim's response kept Sherlock's attention. He licked his lips, suddenly wanting... _everything_ , all at once. He settled for switching both of Jim's wrists to one hand, pinning them above the man's head. His mouth latched hungrily onto Jim's neck, intent on leaving a mark. His free hand struggled with the fastenings of Jim's trousers.

Jim's hips thrust up, knees falling open, and he whined from the back of his throat. He was still hard, had been hard throughout their tousle, and when Sherlock's hand brushed over him his mouth fell open. He wasn't going to block out the sensation, which meant he also felt every single one of Sherlock's teeth gnawing into his neck. He was crying out from it, small gasps every time Sherlock bit and jerked his head. 

Sherlock felt intoxicated, even more than he already was. Having the tables turned, Jim writhing beneath him, was heady, bringing with it a rush of power and a renewed spike of lust. Jim actually felt _smaller_ than he normally did - perhaps the result of cutting through the projected aura of his personality.

Sherlock lost patience and tugged. Something broke and cloth slid downwards. Sherlock pulled back and away, just enough to bodily pick Jim up and toss him onto the mattress.

The man let out a screech that might have ended in laughter, but he hit the bed and rolled to right himself and effectively cut off the sound. He was up crouched on his hands and knees in an instant, grinning and daring Sherlock to come for him. Tension wound through every sinew of his frame, coiled and ready to spring. 

Sherlock stripped off the last of his clothing, then turned to regard Jim, oddly solemn and eerily intense. He'd absorbed a bit of Jim's demonic appearance, pale skin and sharp cheekbones offset by dark hair, grey irises swallowed up by black. Everything, all of his focus, had narrowed down to the smaller man crouched on the bed.

One moment Sherlock was utterly still, and in the next he'd leapt for Jim's throat.

They slammed together and rolled, Jim on his back, Sherlock above him. The detective kept him pinned with his weight, and Jim let out a strangled cry when Sherlock's teeth sank into his neck. Instinctively Jim's arms locked around Sherlock's neck in return, hands buried in the man's hair and ready to pry him off. Jim pulled, hard, but he also wrapped his legs around Sherlock's middle, bringing himself up to press against the taller man. 

Sherlock was pulled away for a moment, then simply bit Jim higher up on his neck. It was a predator's move, sinking teeth in until the prey finally relented and gave in. He hummed, low in his throat, when Jim's legs wrapped around him, and again when he tilted his hips and they slid against one another. Sherlock paid no attention to the way Jim's fingers tangled in his hair until the man tugged again. Another brief struggle was sparked, ending with Jim's wrists being pressed against the mattress and Sherlock hissing in irritation. "Stay. Put."

Jim didn't need the use of his hands to roll his hips, and hooking his ankles around Sherlock's back gave him all the leverage he needed. He gave a gleaming, taunting grin to the man above him. Even knowing Sherlock was on the edge as he was like this, Jim could only egg him on. His dark eyes dared Sherlock to give in to the rage, the despair, the want, and the _greatness_ that was boiling inside him. Jim twisted again, grinding into Sherlock. " _Make me_."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. A number of possibilities surfaced, ideas that might have horrified him if he was anywhere near a normal state of mind. He picked one on impulse, repeating what he'd previously done to Sebastian. Delicate violinist fingers wrapped around Jim's bite-marked throat and tightened. "Be careful what you ask for," he murmured.

Jim snarled until his air was cut off. Unlike Sebastian, he struggled. He struggled for everything he was worth, throwing his weight against Sherlock and nearly unbalancing him several times. Sherlock had a great advantage in weight and determination and Jim ran out of oxygen quickly in his efforts. Very shortly he was tiring, black eyes still locked on Sherlock's, coldly smoldering above him. 

They stayed like that, Jim caught in Sherlock's grip for long minutes, until he was twitching, but Jim refused to close his eyes. 

They were playing a dangerous game indeed. Sherlock waited as long as he dared before releasing Jim's throat. His hands went to the sheets while Jim coughed and gasped for air, ripping them up and turning them into makeshift bindings. Sherlock wanted Jim's hands secured before he recovered sufficiently to be able to struggle again.

The man lay limp and gasping until he realized what was happening. Sherlock had one arm tied by the time Jim thrashed and swung at him with the other. His nails dug into Sherlock's collar and he tried to launch himself up enough to put a knee into Sherlock's stomach, but the man's weight had him pinned too well. Jim shouted in frustration when Sherlock caught his other wrist. 

Sherlock chuckled to himself as he bound Jim's wrists together, checking the knots to ensure they weren't too tight, yet weren't loose enough that the man would slip free. "I told you to be careful what you wished for. You asked me to make you." He peered at his handiwork, satisfied and admiring the view. "So I will. You've forced me into enough situations, turnabout is only fair."

More fabric was laced through the knots, then anchored everything to the edges of the headboard. Jim's snarl only made him smirk. "That's better."

The lean muscle in Jim's arms and shoulders tightened as he tested the makeshift ropes. "I think we both know there's no way you can make me sorry for it," Jim said with a curl of his lip. "And you just ripped my sheets," he hissed petulantly. It was a petty comment, but it didn't hide the anger reflected back at Sherlock or the anticipation welling in the room. Jim drew his legs up, sliding them up the back of Sherlock's. 

"I'm not expecting to make you sorry." Sherlock's hands ran down Jim's tensed body with measured fondness. "I'm expecting to make you punished." Something that not even Sebastian had been able to do, despite all the times Jim had toyed with him.

"Besides, you can afford new sheets." He paused to consider for a moment. "I think I'll leave your legs free. Unless you start causing trouble." He slid backwards, attempting to escape Jim's leglock. He had other plans, and he wasn't just going to give Jim what he wanted.

 

Jim raised one slender eyebrow. He watched Sherlock with narrow, guarded eyes. Jim was understandably wary, but calmed for the moment. Sherlock was working on the spur of the moment, but he worked with ingenuity, the kind Jim could appreciate and so he knew better than to take the momentary calm for granted. Especially not when Sherlock exhibited telltale signs of having recently shot up again. 

The detective's thoughts were racing. His anger was still there, somewhere, but the thrill of dominating Jim for once was keeping it in line. Particularly now that Jim had stopped struggling and was merely watching, waiting for whatever would come next. 

Sherlock remembered a shard of their earlier conversation and an idea struck. Jim didn't care for feeling a loss of control, a loss of power. He also didn't like getting denied what he wanted. A smile touched Sherlock's lips as he moved to retrieve the small bottle of lubricant from its drawer. "Has anyone ever put you in this position before, really? Sebastian's still out on a job. I could do anything."

Jim exhaled. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment when he saw what Sherlock had in his hand. "No, love. No one." 

And it was true, unless Jim had some kind of trigger in the room, unlikely, Sherlock _could_ do anything to him, for however long he wanted until the bodyguard returned. Technically, Jim had always been gambling against that possibility. This was not the first time he had been alone with Sherlock since the detective had come to live with them, and at any point he could have overpowered Jim and made a run for it. The threat was always that Jim had won long before they ever came here. If Sherlock left, Jim would come for him again. 

"You could always kill me," Jim mused. "You'd only have Sebastian to contend with afterward, and the considerable network of operatives he'd have available to him. But really, I don't think such things would be beyond your capabilities…if you applied yourself." 

"And you think that's what I want?" Perhaps Jim had a better grasp on his psychology than he did. Sherlock was so very, very good at analyzing others, but his own emotions and desires had always been a confused muddle. Even more so now. He hadn't healed from the wounds left from being ripped out of his old life, but this new one brought its own comforts and treasures. "That I'm that simplistic, to kill you on a whim?"

He paused to consider the lines of Jim's body. Resignation wasn't quite what he'd expected. "Death isn't the punishment I had in mind." Sherlock kept his gaze locked on Jim's face as he positioned himself between his legs. For someone who'd looked absolutely furious when he'd entered the bedroom, Sherlock's touch was surprisingly gentle. Instead of nails and teeth and brutal pressure, his tongue laved a line up the side of Jim's cock before he took him in.

Jim let his head fall back and moaned. His hips twitched under Sherlock's hands and his length hardened fully between Sherlock's lips. Finally, when he gained some composure he looked down at Sherlock again. Jim's pupils were blown wide with lust. "That's the point, I know you don't want to kill me." Between heavy gasps, his lips spread into a smile. "I knew that from the very beginning. Anything else you could do to me," his breath caught when Sherlock sucked the head of his cock, "is simply _delightful_." 

That said something, in and of itself, that Jim implied that _anything_ that came from him would be welcomed and accepted. Even if it was pain. Sherlock noted the idea for later, but conventional pain wasn't quite what he had in mind at the moment. It was enough to watch Jim's reactions as he bobbed up and down on his length, coating his fingers in lubricant while Jim was distracted. Sherlock was rewarded with the sight of Jim's breath hitching again when he breeched him with a finger - not as gentle as he usually was, but not cruel, either.

Jim's head rolled from one side to the other while his heels dug into the mattress and he lifted himself for Sherlock. He was very enthusiastic about it, welcoming Sherlock inside him in spite of the roughness. One finger didn't burn all that much, but if the rest were anything like this, it would. His toes curled in the mangled sheets when Sherlock rubbed just right and sucked at the same time. "I rather like your idea of _punishment_ ," Jim gasped and laughed. 

Sherlock returned the laugh, the sound trapped and buzzing against delicate skin. Jim was happy enough at the moment, but he hadn't caught onto the game yet. Sherlock let him think what he would and concentrated on the task at hand: bringing Jim quickly up to the edge. The sounds Jim was making and the writhing beneath his hands and mouth was proving to be more than a little distracting.

Jim surely knew something was up when Sherlock added another digit, increased the intensity, but prolonged it. When he gauged the tension was getting just a bit too close, his fingers stilled and he abruptly released Jim's cock. A sweet smile touched Sherlock's lips, but nothing in his expression could be read as innocent.

The smaller man was left gasping, his legs spread wide in invitation that wasn't accepted. The signs added up and Jim's eyes narrowed at Sherlock. The detective saw the very moment Jim understood. Sherlock intended to keep him like that. This wasn't about pain. It was about control and Jim's desperate need of him. Sherlock intended to draw that need out, to make it tangible. To make Jim desperate for him. The small criminal's eyes flashed. 

"Now you understand. Not the sort of punishment you were expecting?" Sherlock let his fingers circle _just_ the right spot, slowly. Enough to tease, but not enough to bring Jim closer to release. "You didn't really think I was just going to give you exactly what you wanted without a struggle, did you?" Sherlock watched Jim's arms tense in their bindings, and his smile widened into a smirk.

Jim's teeth bared at him. "You think you can hold out that long?" He pushed his hips down on Sherlock's fingers but the man just moved his hand and Jim gained very little friction. Jim breathed out in frustration. The lithe planes of his stomach twitched under Sherlock's hand, tense and ready for the release Sherlock wouldn't allow. The set of Jim's jaw said that in spite of his bravado, he knew very well he would have a much harder time holding out than Sherlock, being restrained as he was. 

"I can hold out however long it takes. It's not as if you're going anywhere," Sherlock grinned back. His expression was cheeky, victorious, but not without a touch a fondness. He pushed Jim's hips back down, wrapped fingers around the base of Jim's cock, and squeezed. The smaller man was going to be denied until Sherlock got what he wanted. The detective's tongue darted out, lapped up a bead of precome and watched Jim's jaw clench. "I want you to beg."

Jim hissed. His hips jerked in an aborted thrust. It made no difference. 

"Is that all? ' _Please, oh please Sherlock, won't you be mine?_ '" he whimpered, tone false with frustration. He was trying to move any way he could to get Sherlock to respond, but the detective was like a statue. Jim's legs brushed up Sherlock's sides, doing as much as he could to entice him. 

Sherlock laughed. "Is that all?" he mimicked, rolling his eyes. "I can tell when you're faking, you know. I've seen deep enough now to be able to tell. You're not going to be able to just put on the appropriate facade and get out of this." Sherlock's hand stroked up and down his length once, twice, three times before he returned to the tight grip at the base of Jim's cock. "You're going to have to be very specific when begging for what you want. And it has to be _you_ doing it. I can stretch this out as long as it takes."

Jim flopped back against the mattress, eyes closed and mute. Frustration boiled within him and all but materialized in the air around them. He had enough pent up energy for it, evidenced by the eagerness with which he'd fought Sherlock earlier, but he didn't move. 

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "Stubborn." His fingers began moving again in a teasing slide, brushing Jim's prostate every now and again to keep the man frustrated. Jim might be forcing himself to remain quiet and relatively still, but his breathing was still rough, and his body still tightened when stimulated. "Why are you refusing? How are a few simple words so mortifying?"

"Haven't I begged enough for you already?" Jim's lips parted and a gasp came between them. His body was still tight with tension. "I've done everything I can to bring you to me. I've turned the world upside down for you. And you want more?" His dark eyes slitted open to watch Sherlock above him, breath shakier with Sherlock's quickening and suddenly slowing movements. 

"You've also hurt me," Sherlock countered. Jim's actions were double-edged, medicine and poison all at once. "I want to hear it. Words that you won't say for _anyone_ else."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to Jim's stomach, resisting the urge to bite. His own shoulders were tense from holding back. "I can keep you like this for hours, if that's what it takes. The case can wait." It was, quite possibly, the only time he'd ever uttered that phrase.

Jim's lips pulled into a real smile. He was sweating with the exertion, unable to find release no matter how hard he tried, but he caught the significance there and it sent him soaring inside. "Come here." His voice was strained, the edge of a whimper crept into it. "Kiss me and I'll tell you." 

Sherlock eyed Jim with suspicion. After a moment he retracted his fingers and released Jim's cock, smiling slightly at the sound of protestation Jim made in response. He moved up the bed carefully, making sure Jim couldn't brush against him and get any relief with a bit of friction. He paused to meet Jim's eyes before he leaned down and pressed their lips together.

Jim closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and poured himself into the kiss, meeting Sherlock hungrily and melting away his hesitance. Their chests brushed together, sticky with sweat and had Jim not been so desperate, it would have been uncomfortable. Sherlock held his hips too high in the air, kneeling on Jim's legs so the man couldn't lift himself off the bed. Jim whined into the kiss, frustrated at being held down. 

Sherlock had him though. And it was _Sherlock_. The detective had been right, Jim had let no one else ever come this far. When he felt the man's forehead against his, he opened his mouth and whispered. " _Please_ Sherlock. I need you inside me."

Sherlock's eyes dilated visibly at the words. His cold, teasing restraint snapped. He chased after the utterance with lips and tongue, lowering his body until he was draped over Jim's smaller frame. His hands slid from Jim's bound arms down to his hips, gripping possessively for a moment. Sherlock's breathing had turned shallow and rapid as his earlier aggression was rekindled.

All at once he moved off of Jim, fumbling with the bottle in his haste to coat himself. Jim's legs were unceremoniously yanked up and positioned around Sherlock's waist, and then he was pressing in.

Jim gave a shout at the sudden burn, but he bucked up to meet Sherlock still. In no time at all he was sheathed inside the smaller man, who squirmed in his grasp. The pain staved off the overwhelming sensation just enough for Jim not come on the spot. That didn't stop him from tightening his grip on his bonds and hooking his ankles behind Sherlock, using the extra bit of leverage to impale himself farther. 

Sherlock fell onto Jim like a starving man. His anger and grief were changed, channeled into a sort of desperate hunger, and Jim was his lifeline. He clung to the smaller man and set a furious pace, his hands gripping Jim strong enough to leave bruises later. Jim's breath was hot on his neck and Sherlock lost most of his coherent thought.

Jim was his. Only his, and the keystone to his life now. Everything would crumble into ruins without him.  
Jim didn't last long, not when Sherlock was this possessive. Sherlock projected it in every touch, every thrust, every stroke between them, and Jim felt it. 

It was exactly what he'd always wanted. Sherlock was his, and Sherlock wanted him in return, the very same way Jim did. Sherlock had said it - together, they were gods and no one could touch them, no one but them. 

When Jim came, it was with a strangled shout. Sherlock didn't even need to touch him. He rode a wave of sensation so strong it was almost painful, screwing his eyes shut and every muscle in his body aching with it. 

Sherlock followed close behind, burying himself as deeply as he could. His harsh cry was muffled against Jim's shoulder. Sherlock's vision went black for a split second, and it was a moment or two before he realized he was holding Jim tight enough to greatly restrict his breathing. 

He loosed his grip slightly, but that was all. Sherlock didn't want to move. Jim was his, and he'd just poured out all of his emotions into the other man. He ached, on more than a physical level.

Jim didn't move either. His chest heaved with exhaustion, but he tightened his legs around Sherlock's back. If he could have moved his arms, he would have wound himself into a ball around Sherlock. He turned his head into the other man, closing his eyes and nuzzling into his neck, getting as close as he could. Echoes of his plea reverberated in his mind. ' _Need you, Sherlock._ ' It hung in the air between them. 

Sherlock finally let go, only long enough to fumble with the knots around Jim's wrists, peering up with heavy-lidded eyes. He promptly wrapped himself around Jim again as soon as his arms were free. He needed Jim as well, now. It was certain that Jim knew as much. 

Jim's arms dropped around him and turned into a vice. He drew Sherlock on top of him and buried his nose in the man's neck. Sherlock's weight should have been crushing him, but Jim didn't complain, it didn't appear he cared at all. He didn't speak, but neither had to. 

Jim had opened a wound and then seared it shut. He knew the pain would last and the scar would always be there, but Jim had to do it, and would continue to do it whenever he found something festering inside the other man. Because Sherlock was his now. 

Sherlock knew the case was waiting. It was a sensation of pressure at the back of his mind, but the compulsion wasn't quite as strong as the desire to stay right there. For the moment, at least. Heavy words lingered right on the edge of his tongue, but he couldn't quite bring himself to voice them. He stroked fingers through Jim's hair instead. 

Jim might know already, anyways. He'd stopped the Game for this, if only for a while. That he was even driven to do that much spoke volumes.

Jim's lips pulled into a small smile against his shoulder. The movement was soft, but in the stillness of the room and the thrumming of their pounding hearts, it was a response in itself. Jim could sense the weight of what rested in Sherlock. He shifted, trying to get closer still, as though remembering Sherlock's illustration of him crawling inside the man's ribcage and calling it home. If he could have, Jim would have probably done it. 

Eventually, Sherlock's high began to dissipate, slowing his breathing and his heart rate. He seemed to pull back into himself as the first edges of the crash began to hit. Sherlock turned his head just enough to eye the tattered mess of the sheets. He didn't want to stay in that room, not tonight. Neither did he want to let go of Jim.

Sherlock sighed, his breath tickling past Jim's ear. "...come back to my room."

Jim lifted his head and enjoyed the brush of skin against skin. He breathed in deeply. The scent of them hung strongly in the air, and though Jim enjoyed it, he wouldn't mind leaving the comfort of the bed to insinuate himself in Sherlock's rooms. Never since the detective had begun occupying them had he imposed on the space, nor had Sherlock invited him to. Until now. 

His grip loosened around Sherlock's neck and he allowed the taller man to move. 

Sherlock moved back, but didn't go far. He shifted his grip, and when he stood he lifted Jim up, reluctant to even let the smaller man leave his arms. Jim didn't seem to mind, or if he did, he didn't react.

Sherlock moved briskly through the living room and up the stairs, ignoring the way the cool air prickled against his skin. He shouldered his way through the door to his room. He only set Jim down to clear off the bed. Bottles, syringes, and the laptop were deposited carelessly atop the dresser.

Jim was smiling by the time Sherlock turned back to him, likely amused at how he'd made use of the bed. He didn't protest when Sherlock lifted him back into his arms and they laid down together, burrowing into the comforter. Jim wrapped around him again. Big, black eyes stared into Sherlock with their deep, penetrating focus. Jim was reading him, that much was obvious, but the little criminal was sending off signals of his own as well - elation, an edge of desperation, but most of all, happiness. 

Sherlock flicked the bedside lamp off, turning the room into a pool of shadows. He wrapped the covers around them both, then returned Jim's embrace. Sherlock's gaze still had a sad edge to it, the substance crash leaving him ragged, but he felt... content. Inviting Jim into his rooms wasn't merely for the night, but symbolic of a greater level of acceptance. Jim had let him in, and Sherlock was letting the last few barriers drop.

A gentle hand stroked down the side of his face and the back of his neck. Jim's touch was soothing. His face had lost all of the madness it usually held, instead his eyes were soft, the tense set of his mouth and brows had relaxed. Jim was utterly open to Sherlock in return. He laid his head on the pillow and didn't look quite like Jim Moriarty, even though subtle signs of the man remained. He wasn't quite anyone else either - not Richard Brook, not any of his personas. He was simply Jim, the man who'd wanted Sherlock. 

Sherlock relaxed into the touch with a sigh. He'd not been one for touch before Jim had torn everything down in order to rebuild him. He couldn't imagine going without, now. "...stay." He didn't expect Jim to want to leave, but Sherlock didn't want to wake up and find him gone. Even if it was merely to go take care of business in the den.

"I will." Jim's voice was as soft as ever. His eyes were growing tired, but he didn't want to stop looking at Sherlock and so he fought to keep them open. His fingers seemed to love the short hair at the back of Sherlock's neck; they never stopped curling through it. Jim's movements, what little he made, were languid. There were bruises forming around his neck, as surely there were in other places, and it was bound to be sore. Probably even more so in the morning, yet Jim didn't acknowledge it. Knowing him, he wouldn't ever. He'd probably walk around all day wearing the bruises proudly. 

Sherlock's smile was oddly shy, even childlike. He tangled their legs together and let his eyes close. Jim continued stroking through his hair, soothing enough to begin to lull him towards sleep. The other man was solid and warm, not a melancholy phantom who thought him dead. He was very present, without judgment, and _wanted_ him. For himself, not for what Sherlock could do.

Sherlock mumbled something, too quiet to discern, and drifted into unconsciousness curled around Jim.

It took a while longer for Jim to follow. His dark eyes slowly took in every variation in the color of Sherlock's face, every motion of his breath. Jim's slim fingers traced the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck, and he was lulled slowly to sleep with the comfort that Sherlock was there with him, and was equally desperate for him. One way or another. His head fell into the crook of Sherlock's neck. In sleep, with the detective's desires fresh in his mind, he was peaceful.

* * *

Sherlock awoke a few hours later, fatigued, hungry, and full of cravings. His eyes fixed on Jim's unconscious features, and he marveled at just how different Jim always appeared when he wasn't projecting the full force of his personality. Sherlock turned slightly, and his gaze fixed on the laptop that had been relegated to the bedside table. He sighed, remembering the case, and suddenly his fingers itched. He'd made progress, but he needed _more_.

Sherlock gently began to untangle himself from Jim.

He was halfway off the smaller man, laptop in hand, by the time the rhythm of Jim's breathing changed and black eyes slid open. Miraculously, he did look annoyed to be woken up, but he did fold his hands beneath his chin and watched Sherlock from the cocoon of comfort they'd made in the warmth of the bed, unwilling to leave. The corners of his lips pulled up when he saw what Sherlock was doing. 

Sherlock heard him wake before he spotted Jim move, just on the edge of his vision. His hands were slower than usual on the keyboard and his fatigue was evident in the shadows around his eyes, but otherwise Sherlock gave no signs of his withdrawal. His stomach chose that moment to voice its complaints, louder than usual in the quiet of the bedroom. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that this case shouldn't take me much longer. I have a prime suspect."

"Do you now?" Jim did seem pleased. He breathed in deeply, still waking up, but he peered around Sherlock's arm to glance at the monitor screen. He hadn't stopped smiling. In spite of every ache and pain Sherlock was enduring, Jim could see that the case was drawing him in. "May I ask who?" 

A scan of a grainy photograph met Jim's eyes, nestled in among the case notes and browser windows. A young blonde woman smiled out from the screen. "Meredith Whitmore. She fits the profile of a fan whose obsession may have drifted into dangerous territory. She appears among the crowd of fans in innumerable photographs, so she took a lot of time and effort to follow Mr. Holloway, even at the beginning of his career. Her name appears only once among those who were caught trespassing. The police concentrated on those who had a record of more than one instance, but someone clever enough to pull off the murder would be clever enough not to get caught again. She was fired from her job a week and a half prior to the dinner where I believe Mr. Holloway was poisoned, and easily within travel distance to reach the event."

Jim scanned the photograph with his head cocked slightly, making the cushion below him dip. She looked for all the world like a sweet young woman, perhaps smiling a little too wide, a little overenthusiastic, but otherwise undetectably obsessive. "A crime of passion, do you suppose?" 

"Perhaps. She fits part of the profile. One puzzling factor, though... Aside from a stint with unemployment, her life continued as normal. Not unheard of, but if Mr. Holloway's death was due to obsession colliding with a sense of lost control, of all hope being lost, there's no signs that she ever made an attempt to turn it into a murder-suicide, as sometimes happens. His death wasn't a convoluted attempt to steal him from everyone else and join him in the grave." Sherlock frowned. "The pieces fit, but the motive is unclear."

Jim's mouth pursed in thought. If he suspected anything more he wouldn't share it with Sherlock, but it was difficult to tell by his response. He lifted himself up to press against the detective's back, still critically examining the face in the old photograph. The detective had dug her up out of little more than thin air considering the lack of evidence he'd had to go on, and, despite equally obvious lack of motive, her circumstances made her a very likely fit. "And what do you plan to do with her now?" Jim purred against Sherlock's earlobe. 

"Get closer." Jim's voice made his temples throb painfully, all while creating an echoing ache lower down that was significantly more pleasant. "Even if she didn't behave in a predictable manner afterwards, if she was the culprit, there would be evidence left behind. Suspicious mementoes. The impulse to take some sort of trophy, something physical to accompany the memory, occurs even with killers who should know better than to risk it. It would be something small."

"You'll be making a discreet visit then." Jim's warm lips spread against the coldness of his ear in a grin. He laughed softly. "A regular little cat burglar." He placed his chin on Sherlock's shoulder when he turned his head to regard the photo once again. "You should go prepared. When you find your memento and prove her guilt, you'll have the rest of the job to carry out." Black eyes swiveled up to meet him. 

"Yes, I will." Execution wouldn't be a problem. Sherlock wasn't particularly bothered by the thought of ending her life, even under current circumstances: married, one child, gainfully employed. He sniffed, then set the laptop aside and moved away from Jim's touch in search of a tissue. Sherlock didn't want to mention it, but Jim could surely read the signs without him saying a word; his withdrawal symptoms had become worse and more visible the longer he used on a steady basis.

Dark eyes followed him like a weight on his back, but Jim remained where he was leaning against the bed resting his head in hand. His fingers touched Sherlock's hip, drawing light scratches against it as his fingernails dragged over the skin. For long moments it seemed he wouldn't say anything. Sherlock's back was turned by the time Jim's voice sounded. "You have a quite an addictive personality." 

"So I've been told." Jim could see the muscles ripple beneath pale skin as Sherlock tensed. He was expecting a fight and his body was already shifting into a defensive posture. Memories were replaying through his mind - memories of his brother, confronting with soft words at first before it grew louder and things got physical.

Jim's hands slid across his hip and began to move up his back. The nails vanished. Surprisingly, they sought to ease the tension in the long spine beneath them. 

"Come here." Jim didn't wait for Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's pale torso and pulled him back, tissues and all. Jim was warm against his back, and Sherlock was much too tall compared to the other man to sit like this comfortably, so Jim had to pull him down enough so that he was all but lying on the smaller man's lap. "You keep your sweet things, and I'll keep mine, and we'll call it a deal."

Sherlock's grey eyes were still cautious. Given how much the drugs had angered Jim at the beginning, how often Jim had commented about his years on the street being a tragic waste, he couldn't quite believe Jim was going to let this go so easily. "And what sweet things are you thinking about, precisely?"

" _You_." The word was breathed through soft lips. "You remember my condition, my only one… That you must remain functional. It must not take _you_ away from me." And so far, it hadn't. Even if Sherlock was experiencing discomfort. The drugs were nothing compared to the recollections of his old life. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He remembered. He also recognized the start of a slide downwards, from the way things had started before. Sherlock knew that he needed to stop. That he needed _help_ to stop, as his own willpower was not going to be enough. At the same time, he didn't _want_ to. "And if it begins to look like the condition is being broken...?"

Nails bit into Sherlock's skin. Jim apparently didn't like the sound of that. 

"Well, that wouldn't be fair, now would it?" he whispered. His voice was low and soft. "I would have to bring you back to me." Something in Jim's voice sounded almost pained. In the criminal's mind, there seemed to be only two unthinkable ideas regarding the man lying in his lap - that Sherlock should not be at his side, and that Sherlock should not be at his best. 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to look at Jim, not like this. He had a feeling that if he glanced up now, the man would be staring at him with that slightly fae, alien look he sometimes got - a burning intensity that was all the more eerie for the fact that his eyes appeared to be all pupil and no iris. "No, it wouldn't be fair. I don't know that I can stop, now. Not easily. It's gone too far for that."

"When you need me, I'll be there. Whether you want it or not." Jim pressed his lips to Sherlock's temple. This modus operandi was exactly what he'd used on Sherlock before. Stalking and ripping the detective out of reach of everyone he'd known before was not something that Jim seemed to feel guilt for apart from the process leaving Sherlock so utterly devastated. 

The detective sighed and lingered in Jim's lap for another moment before he struggled to sit up. He had to get moving. There were preparations to make for the break-in later that night, and he needed something to clear his head. Or, at the very least, dull the edge of the pain. He rose and headed for the bathroom. "Have a care on how you go about it. I never quite forgave Mycroft his methods."

Their eyes met briefly. Jim nodded. Slumped back in the bed as he was, sheets tangled in his legs, he looked like some kind of sated devil. Jim had methods for everything, but they tended to be more painful than not. He wasn't Mycroft by any means, but if he wanted to keep Sherlock, he would have to tread carefully. Jim's gaze burned into Sherlock's back as he turned away. 

What had been intended to be a quick trip in search of a painkiller was thwarted by the temptation of the shower. Or rather, by the warm water it contained. Sherlock delayed once more, reasoning that he could plan his course of action while he soaked under the spray. One twist of the silver knob and the room filled with the patter of running water.

Jim met him as he was coming out of the shower. He caught Sherlock, still wet and clean, up against the wall for a heated snog before he let the detective escape and took over the shower himself. Jim had a penchant for singing under the spray that morning, and it echoed throughout Sherlock's side of the apartment until he was done. 

They spent the day in mostly, with Sherlock pining for nightfall and Jim distracting him with dinner and conversation. He'd needed to eat rather desperately. They both had. 

Sherlock felt better with a full stomach and a bit of self-medication, but he was still tense and chomping at the bit for the remainder of the day. He'd collected what he needed from Sebastian's stockpile of equipment, all under Jim's watchful eye, before he proceeded with attempting to wear out the flat's carpeting with his pacing. Nothing he did made the daylight fade faster.

Jim took to work on his own projects when nothing could keep Sherlock occupied any longer. He sat at the couch, curled up with his laptop, while Sherlock paced in front of, behind, and sometimes around him. 

When the sun was on the horizon and the sky lit up with it and washed blankets of gold through the apartment. The skyscrapers gleamed with it outside their expansive window. When dusk finally came, Jim closed his laptop. 

Sherlock was radiating energy at that point. What had been poured into useless physical motions turned into sheer focus as he stilled, then turned on his heel and climbed the stairs to his quarters. All he needed was a quick change of clothes and he'd be ready to go. The bag of equipment he'd need was already waiting by the door, packed hours earlier.

When he came out he found Jim ready and waiting there at the door, bag at his feet and hands folded in front of him. He wore a pleasant smile, as though they were going out to some particularly special event. When Sherlock joined him, they left together, moving as one to the elevator and waiting patiently for its descent. Jim couldn't wipe the smile from his lips the entire way. 

Sherlock's gaze kept settling on the curve of Jim's mouth. "Surely this is not such a novelty," he murmured as they stepped out of the lift and strode towards the garage. "You've seen me on cases before. You've seen me end another's life before. I hardly see how the combination merits such glee." 

Both men split up as they reached the car. Sherlock took the driver's seat while Jim tossed the bag into the back.

"Seen you from afar," Jim countered. "It's quite another experience being so very _up close and personal_ with the process." He tilted his head and gave Sherlock a leer as they pulled away. Jim got comfortable in the passenger's seat, crossing his ankles and leaning back. He even rolled down the window and let the cold air wash over them, mussing his perfectly sleek hair in the process and not caring. 

"I thought manipulation from afar was your preference," Sherlock teased back. His spirits were much improved now that he could actually _do_ what he was meant to do - tear puzzles apart. Sherlock's heart was pounding in anticipation, and the cold breeze only furthered the feeling that he was on a literal hunt, swiftly travelling through the concrete wilds and closing in on the prey of choice.

They didn't have far to go. Meredith Whitmore hadn't moved far in the intervening years. Her listed address was in a suburban area only a short drive away. Forty-five minutes would put them at her doorstep.

Jim turned with his teeth sharp and smile bright and they laughed together as they sped along. The drive seemed more like hovering on the edge of a dream, unreal and far too real at once with the bite of the cold and the taste of the air and the brightness of the lights around them. 

Jim leaned his head out the window, looked up at the sky, and pretended he could see the stars. Since neither of them could, he described them to Sherlock as they drove. He thought aloud about galaxies and asteroids, why this or that satellite or station was so inefficient it was nearly mind boggling that the morons who had put them up there could be called scientists, and more or less seemed like he was drunk on it all. When he was finished with his own diatribe, he encouraged Sherlock to illuminate his own process of discovering Meredith Whitmore. 

"It was among the wilder conspiracy theories, actually," Sherlock admitted. His arm had snaked out once Jim had settled back into his seat, draped across Jim's shoulders. "The police were all looking at the official guest list, Holloway's wife herself, or his rivals that might not have wanted him to finally see his career take off. A portion of his fans turned on their own and began compiling names and data on some of the more fanatical, disliked members. There were quite a few names, and a few of them had the requisite intelligence and means to obtain thallium, but none of them had the rest: nearly effortless ability to get in close proximity to the scene of the crime. Meredith lived nearby, had independent transportation, and had no job that would have noticed her absence."

"It is always our human connections that do us in, in the end," Jim mused fondly. Meredith had a long time to enjoy her near escape, but it seemed there were no better rats than those who had known her well. Jim rested his head against Sherlock's arm, enjoying the detective's deep, velvety tone. 

In no time at all, they'd arrived. 

It didn't look like the home of a murderer. Then again, things rarely ever turned out the way they were commonly portrayed in media. Killers, on the whole, didn't live in dilapidated shacks out in the woods, coming into town every now and again in ragged clothing with suspicious stains and drawing attention to themselves by failing to follow social rules. Killers often looked and acted just like everyone else. That was precisely how they got away with murder, until their carelessness gave them away or stress made them crack.

Sherlock retrieved the bag from the back seat. He pulled on a pair of gloves and tossed another set to Jim, then grabbed a set of lock picks and a device for circumventing digital security systems. 

Jim pulled the leather over his hands and they got out of the car, making sure to close the doors without a sound. They'd parked down the road, hidden between several larger cars and a very large oak tree. The street was quiet at this hour, the only lights still on belonged to one of the houses at the end of the block, and their curtains were closed. Jim let Sherlock lead as they made their way noiselessly up the walk, taking care to watch for any sign of onlookers. 

It was remarkably easy for Sherlock to slip back into old habits, keeping to the shadows and moving as soundlessly as he could. The respectable, cream-coloured door held only mediocre locks. It took Sherlock only moments to pick them. Neither did the electronic alarm cause much of a hassle, quickly disabled before it had a chance to register the intrusion. Both men slipped inside and turned to get their bearings.

American homes were larger than homes in the United Kingdom, that was for certain. Sherlock moved quickly, searching for the places that were likely to hold artifacts of personal significance. A hutch full of kitschy trinkets was bypassed for the oak bookcase in the den, well stocked with small boxes and photo albums.

Jim quietly unzipped the supply bag Sherlock had set on the tile floor, taking the few things they would need when they encountered Ms. Whitmore. He then silently followed after Sherlock. It was immediately obvious how well both men were skilled in breaking and entering. Jim found Sherlock flitting around the darkened room without any trouble whatsoever. He waited at the doorway, eyeing the staircase at the end of the hall leading up to the master bedroom. 

Sherlock was glad Jim had decided to come along. Not only had he begun to find Jim's presense intrinsically soothing, but it was nice to have someone on pointe. Such had been one of the reasons Sherlock had enjoyed John's company on the job, after that first fateful night when John had taken action to protect Sherlock's life.

Boxes and albums were set on the floor, and a penlight came out. Sherlock worked quickly, flipping through the materials within for something that would catch his eye. After a few minutes, he struck the jackpot - one of the albums was dedicated to Meredith's interest in Mr. Holloway. Faded photographs of the young woman happily posing with other fans or in significant locations were paired up with yellowed article clippings.

Three quarters of the way through the album, there were photos of Meredith and several other fans, posing outside of a theater for the latest movie opening... and a short distance away from Holloway's home, where the fateful dinner was to be had. A few days before the dinner itself, from the garish timestamps in the bottom right corners of the photographs. The next page held movie stubs, a creased invitation ticket, a list of the guests who had been invited to the dinner, and what was presumably a serviette from the event itself, all sealed behind protective plastic.

Jim's dark eyes fixed on him, visible only by their whites. " _Found what you were looking for?_ " he mouthed, seeing the satisfaction in Sherlock's stance. Nothing more than air left his throat, but the detective understood him perfectly. The leather of Jim's gloves creaked against the small box in his hand. He was ready to move. 

Sherlock closed the book and replaced everything as it had been, then stood. He was satisfied. It would be tricky to time everything perfectly so Meredith's husband and child didn't get involved, but once they were incapacitated, there would be answers. Answers and death.

Sherlock joined Jim and motioned upwards, moving towards the stairway. The smaller man fell into step with him. They paused partway down the hallway, just long enough to jam a doorway painted with bright colors. Wooden letters arched across the panel, spelling out Lizzy in childish font. Sherlock felt a prickle on the back of his neck, reminded of his own childhood brush with assassins. This child, at least, wouldn't be so unfortunate as to see death being dealt.

Jim's shoulder brushed his and they were moving again. Their ascent up the steps was silent and infinitely more careful of creaks than it had been in the hall. One quick glance left and right confirmed the location of the master bedroom. The door was cracked just enough for Jim to reach out and push it back slowly without a sound. The beginnings of a smile pulled at his mouth. 

What little light there was revealed Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore, fast asleep and curled into their respective sides of the bed. The two men in the doorway hung back for just a moment to take in the scene. Jim moved first, slipping smoothly into the room like he were an inky shadow himself, moving in for Mr. Whitmore. Sherlock would have his turn to follow when Jim was done. He would have access to their real target, free from interruption. 

The box in Jim's hand was slid open and a gleaming needle was revealed.

Sherlock kept alert, watching Jim move out of the corner of his eye while he scanned the room. Meredith had adapted fairly well in the intervening years. Everything looked like a bland, middle-class dream: pale floral wallpaper, pointless embellishments that revealed nothing of the personality of the owner, a flatscreen telly affixed to one wall, an assortment of gaudy and expensive jewelry left in a box on the dresser. Terrycloth robes hanging from a hook in one corner. Cheerful watercolor paintings of mountains and birds and lakeside picnics... and photographs.

Sherlock moved closer to get a better look. Another set of blond curls caught his eye, closely matching faces turned towards one another - one delicate, one with a deeper set to the eyebrows, jawline, and the bridge of the nose. _A twin._

Pieces snapped together in Sherlock's mind. He held up a hand to get Jim's attention.

The small man was crouched over the prone form of Meredith's husband, needle ready to plunge into his neck, but Jim froze. His eyes darted to Sherlock, and then to the direction of the detective's gaze and black eyes widened when he took in the photograph. When their eyes met again, Jim's grin held real mirth. He pulled back and straightened, sheathing the needle. 

Sherlock snatched the frame off the wall and returned to the hallway. Let the Whitmores puzzle over the missing photograph and their child's broken door. Sherlock's mind was already humming, gleefully fixated on this entertaining twist of fate.

A _twin brother_. Meredith hadn't had to struggle to make the mental transition back to normal life, because she hadn't needed to. Her brother, already in a strained relationship with the rest of the family, had lashed out in a bid to hurt the ones around him for the estrangement he'd felt. Estrangement that only deepened in the aftermath of Holloway's death. From the way her brother's face hadn't appeared in any of the albums downstairs, nor in mentions of the family, the rejection had run deep indeed.

Sherlock started at the feel of cool air on his skin. He'd been so preoccupied that he'd retraced his footsteps back through the house without noticing.

A warm hand at his back kept him moving as Jim reactivated the security system and clicked the door shut behind them. They were off down the walk again, silent until they reached the car. This time Jim took the driver's seat and when their doors were closed again, burst into a peel of excited laughter. He plucked the photo from Sherlock's hands to examine it more closely. "A _twin? ___"

"Which explains a few of the remaining oddities." Everything fit. Sherlock was _certain_ that this man was the culprit. "I'll have to do a search about when, precisely, he might have been disowned by the rest of the family. Or removed himself from the picture. Whatever happened, it was deep enough to merit his name being excluded when I was researching Meredith's history." Evidently he hadn't gone back far enough.

They were speeding back into the night air and leaving the suburbs behind, and Jim was almost high again. This was the kind of twist he could appreciate, and he told Sherlock so with quick, darting flashes of his eyes every time he spared a glance from the road. 

The city of New York rose like a neon kingdom ahead of them and only empty highway lay behind. Jim pulled his glove free with his teeth, and warm fingers reached for Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock grasped Jim's hand in his own, then pulled it up to brush his lips tenderly across the back. This felt... right. Much as they had settled into one another's minds, as much as it was possible for two separate beings to do so, there was a synchronicity even here. Sherlock was doing what he did best, and Jim had effortlessly slid into the spot that John had occupied. Even more so - Jim had provided backup while radiating his pleasure from watching Sherlock work, but also followed Sherlock's thoughts. He'd moved without needing instruction.

Dark eyes all but glittered at him from the driver's seat as they passed under the lights of the city. Sherlock was a dark statue next to Jim, but one that warmed from the inside and radiated everything outward, silently. 

They drove all the way home like that, with thoughts and dreams and consciousness flowing between them as effortlessly as swimming through a stream.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I hate to say this, but we're getting really close to the end of what we've written. (Remember quite a few chapters ago when I mentioned that?) Just one or two left to go.

Weeks passed with painful slowness after Sherlock's fall. The media hadn't quite given up on squeezing the last few drops on the story - cold calls and paparazzi harassment hadn't quite ceased, but had slowed considerably without any new developments coming to light. Or, at least, none where John and Greg had been concerned. Someone from Mycroft's workplace had leaked the fact that Sherlock had had a brother, and the news had been full of speculation and fuzzy, distant shots of Mycroft stepping into black cars. The public was split as to whether he was a sinister government spook or an eccentric paper-pusher who doubled as a hermit.

It had been just short of two weeks since their last meeting. Their previous get-together had been cancelled at the last moment, with Mycroft's assistant informing John and Greg that an emergency had occurred that demanded Mycroft's full attention. Since then, Mycroft had proven to be unavailable by phone. John hadn't even been certain that they'd meet this week, but for the RSVP card that had materialized on the kitchen table - spidery script on cream card stock, indicating that they were meeting at John's flat at the appointed time, rather than the pub they'd been frequenting thus far.

John didn't stop to think much about how Mycroft, or more likely Mycroft's assistants, had gotten into the flat. He just couldn't drudge up enough to feel for the intrusion of his personal space. So instead he went about setting up a pot of tea and readying the plates and glasses for visitors. He did this once a week and only once a week, for Greg and Mycroft alone. 

Their meetings thus far had been a sorely depressing business with Mycroft withdrawing more and more from simple expressions of humanity, apart from updates on the Met's investigation of Sherlock Holmes the fake genius. John wasn't much better. Half the time he was silent, not wanting to be around people at all, but finding the presence of the others somehow soothing somewhere deep down inside of him. Once a week was about all he could handle. He worked more, and slept more, and generally tried to keep himself from thinking about the only thing he could think about anymore. And through it all, Sherlock's death still hadn't become a reality for him. He knew this was a normal reaction to unexpected loss, the brain has trouble accepting someone so fundamental being ripped from a person's life. _Denial._

It was a constant pain in his chest, and his thoughts cycled between not being able to fathom going home and not finding Sherlock there, and being ripped apart knowing he would never see him, and hating the world and a bit of himself for not being able to do anything about it. Mostly, he was getting used to living with a new kind of imaginary pain, a limp. 

A shadow appeared in the doorway, enough to startle John until he recognized Mycroft. The man hadn't bothered to knock and wait politely at the doorstep, but had let himself in. Whatever his concerns about being hounded by the press, they apparently hadn't been enough to merit a shift in wardrobe; Mycroft was dressed to his normal degree of formality, which was to say that he could have been going to an audience with Her Majesty herself and not looked out of place. "Good evening, John."

John relaxed back into his armchair, waving him in and to make himself comfortable because John just didn't have the energy to get up. "Tea's in the kettle. I hope you've brought drinks because I haven't had a chance to go out this week. Not much in the fridge either." They'd be ordering in, or going without. 

The week prior to that, John had inquired about the young boy from Richard's studio again. Mycroft had spent a good portion of the night recounting the details of Jake's visit with one of his personally trusted therapists, and how it had not gone well at all. The boy had a strong streak of loyalty, refusing to believe them about Richard Brook's double life. From what John gathered, their session had started out well until Jake began to put the thread of probing questions together. John still wanted to talk to the boy, but Mycroft refused. 

After a moment's thought on the man's absence last week, John paused. "Is Greg on his way?"

"As far as I'm aware. I would have gotten notice by now if he'd not gotten a taxi at the appropriate time." Mycroft made a brief detour to the kitchen to deposit a paper bag on the counter and pour himself a mug of tea. The simple homeliness of the cup looked wrong in his hands. A few moments later and he'd taken a seat in the chair opposite John, leather laptop case propped at his feet. "Given his time of departure, he should be here any moment now."

They weren't left waiting long. Within five minutes there was a knock at the door. John still didn't bother getting up, instead he opted to shout all the way through the hall. "Come in!" And, moments later, Greg's heavy footfalls tromped up the stairs. 

"'llo John." Greg nodded to the doctor, looking rather harried from his trip over. John nodded back in welcome, but Greg's gaze was already turning to Mycroft, sitting poised in the chair Sherlock had usually occupied. The former inspector did not look happy. "Do you know what happened when I went to pay my rent today?"

Mycroft turned just enough to fix impassive grey eyes on Greg. "I can see that you're going to inform me of what happened, regardless of what response I care to offer." Already, Mycroft could guess what Lestrade was going to say. It could be read in the furrow of his brow, the angry slant to his shoulders and disapproving set to his mouth. 

"You're damn well right I am." Greg stalked into the room while John looked between them with drawn brows. " _Somebody's_ paid my rent already. For the next four months. I don't think I have to ask you who." He stood between them, squared off against Mycroft but keeping, unconsciously or not, a respectful distance still. 

"Someone appreciative of your character and your past service record, no doubt." Mycroft wasn't quite denying or admitting his responsibility for the deed, dancing along a thin edge with pretty words. He didn't look ruffled in the least at having a Detective Inspector scowling at him. "I'd imagine that would come as a relief, having one less burden to worry about during the wait for reinstatement."

Greg closed his eyes. His nose scrunched with it. Everyone in the room knew how badly he was hurting for a living. He hadn't exactly had a lot of savings after his wife and kids had walked out, and still paid whatever he could to support them. "I can't accept this." 

"Greg," John cut in, leaning forward and leveling the man with raised brows and one of his perfect stares. "Maybe you should let this one go, at least for now." 

Greg turned his distressed gaze on John instead. A muscle in his jaw jumped and he exhaled harshly before turning back to Mycroft. "One time, I'll accept this _one time_. And I'm paying you back."

Mycroft took a sip of tea and regarded Greg over the rim of the mug. "Actions can only be termed repayment if a debt is incurred, which isn't the case," he replied. Mycroft raised an eyebrow as Greg opened his mouth to protest again. "But that discussion can wait for another time. Now that both of you are present, there are important matters to attend to. While I was having my network search for the whereabouts of Moriarty, I found something better still. I believe I have proof that Sherlock is still alive."

Both sets of eyes snapped to him and everything stopped. 

The room went silent. 

For one long, unreal moment, no one breathed. And then John opened his mouth. The sheer well of emotion beneath his frozen exterior emanated from him and sparked the air, as tangible as electricity. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to form a word. "What?"

"I didn't call you immediately because I needed to be certain, in my own mind. I didn't want to give you hope only to tear it away again." Mycroft had set his mug down as he spoke and was already retrieving his laptop from its leather satchel. He flipped the top open and entered an impossibly long password. "I had my contacts monitoring any unusual criminal activity, and a few days ago I received notice of a jewelry heist that coincided with a string of car bombings. The interesting part, however, was this."

Mycroft brought up a video recording and turned the laptop around for Greg and John. The feed looked like a normal gala event, all suits and fancy cocktail dresses. A few second later, two figures were highlighted with layers that had been put over the footage: one tall, rugged-looking blond moved around one corner of the room, and at the opposite end, a familiar silhouette appeared among the crowd, dark curls and all. Mycroft paused the feed at a particularly sharp frame.

John nearly fell out of his seat in his attempt to get closer to the monitor. He pressed into Mycroft's space without a second thought, eyes wide and face white, not six inches from the monitor. " _Oh my god,_ " he breathed. 

John's eyes darted all around the picture until they landed back on the figure who looked strikingly like Sherlock, even from afar. 

"It can't be him," John whispered. He had to say it because he _wanted_ it to be Sherlock more than anything, and now he was scared, hopes painfully readying themselves on the edge of his mind. But the man's face was in the frame clear enough, and though he wasn't looking at the camera, the cut of his cheekbones and the slope of his nose could only belong to Sherlock. "How… _where was this?_ "

"Christie's Fine Art Auctions and Private Sales. New York City." Mycroft's gaze was fixed on John's reaction, rather than the screen. He'd watched the footage himself, over and over, out of sheer desperation that turned to certainty before a cold anger took hold. "Whoever shot him off the bridge, they somehow arranged for Sherlock to be plucked out of the river, then transported him out of the country, for whatever purpose."

"I'm having travel records and security feeds analyzed. While there's no guarantee Sherlock hasn't been transported somewhere else by his captors, chances are good that he's still in the United States. Possibly even still in New York."

John's desperate eyes turned on Mycroft. Every bit of himself lay unguarded for the elder Holmes to see, and what lived just under John's fragile exterior was raw. "You think Moriarty kidnapped him? You think it was _Moriarty_ , right?" John was realigning everything they knew about Sherlock's setup and quickly trying to work it into a cohesive picture. "Why would they have him go to an auction house?" 

Sherlock didn't look restrained - e looked like he was part of the audience, just like everyone else, but if the tall blond man he was standing too close to was one of his captors, he possibly wouldn't have to be. 

"I believe it was Moriarty, yes. The man didn't want to destroy Sherlock, he wanted to _collect_ him. He used my brother's curiosity and pride first, then by entrapment and manipulating him via his emotional attachments. My theory," Mycroft intoned, voice gone frigid. "Is that Sherlock never escaped that sense of entrapment. Moriarty is keeping him captive through subtlety, rather than completely relying on brute force, and now is playing off of Sherlock's other weaknesses in order to keep him there. This," he tapped the screen. "Is entertainment and an attempt at bonding. Sherlock has nothing with which to keep himself occupied but what Moriarty is allowing him, and he's allowing Sherlock only activities which further the entrapment and promote an emotional attachment. Moriarty is transitioning Sherlock into a state where he _wants_ to stay."

John blinked rapidly. He couldn't believe what he was hearing and he drew back. It fit easily with what they had learned about Moriarty's obsessive nature, but for _Sherlock_ to become that thoroughly trapped… John would have said it was unheard of had not the vision of Sherlock in the night before he died suddenly resurfaced in his memories. There had been something broken in the detective that night. That was the only time John had quite so visibly seen him not know where to turn. 

"I don't care what Moriarty's holding over him, there is no way Sherlock would _want_ to stay!" John's voice rose as the words fell from his mouth. 

Silence filled the room for a moment. Mycroft raised one eyebrow and regarded John with skepticism. "I wouldn't dismiss the possibility so easily, John. For all of my brother's intelligence, he's just as susceptible to manipulation techniques as any other human. Stockholm Syndrome doesn't limit itself to only infecting the mediocre."

All of which made extraction that much more difficult. Moriarty would be hard to catch on his own, but if Sherlock was working with him, any attempt at rescue was going to be a nightmare.

"It's been _weeks_ ," John shot back after a moment to let the words sink in. It didn't take the wind out of his sails. John was out of his chair, unable to hold still. " _He wouldn't give up that easily._ "

Sherlock had a strong sense of will and an enormous independent streak. He would be playing docile to stay alive. Captives sometimes lived for years with their kidnappers only to escape the moment they had the chance. But Moriarty was _clever_. And he was manipulative. 

John's hand went to his temple, trying to rub away the anxiety. He hadn't been able to believe just _how_ manipulative Moriarty had been, Richard had gotten to him so thoroughly. But Sherlock had known. " _Sherlock_ saw through him. Right from the beginning."

"And despite that fact, Moriarty was still able to play him. Sherlock knew his enemy and did his best to keep him in sight and under control, and Moriarty _still_ played him into a corner." A bit of Mycroft's own anger had finally seeped into his tone, features suddenly turning hawkish.

"We have to plan for every possibility. While Sherlock may just be playing for time and under the illusion that a misstep will result in serious consequences for you and Detective Inspector Lestrade, we _have to consider_ that he may have been coerced to a point where he is willingly collaborating. Moriarty studied Sherlock thoroughly before he initiated contact. He may know precisely how to break him."

John looked affronted at that. 

"If this _is_ Moriarty's plan, then we've got to find a way to get to Sherlock before it gets any worse," Greg stepped in. "Let him know we still believe in him, that he's got something to come back to. Even if it's just us." But that was easier said than done, and by the set of Greg's face when he said it, he knew it. 

They all knew Sherlock's name was destroyed. If he came back from the dead, he would be a wanted man. Even if he could come up with evidence to the contrary on every single case Sally had documented against him, he would stand for a very difficult trial. 

"Why didn't he _tell_ us?" John hissed between clenched teeth, more to himself than the others. 

"Because he's always stubbornly insisted on dealing with everything alone. After being backed so thoroughly in a corner, he may have given up hope." Sherlock could have tried to escape, tried to drop enough hints that Mycroft would have found him earlier... but perhaps he felt that there was no way back, that everything was damaged beyond even the capabilities of the British government. Far better to start over, perhaps, than to return to a life of skulking about hiding from a notorious face and ruined name, and having to deal with the angry gazes of those betrayed.

"I've taken the liberty of making travel arrangements," Mycroft continued. "We leave in a few hours for New York City. Passports and Visas have already been procured."

John's head snapped up. In a moment his gaze went from sorrow to determination. His lips pursed tight and he nodded. "I'll go and let Mrs. Hudson know I'll be away." John retreated down the hall with a quicker step than he'd had in weeks, leaving Mycroft alone with the ex-DI. 

"Well I've got nothing on, so if you could use an extra hand, I'll do what I can," Greg offered, his aggravation with Mycroft from earlier completely absent. He shifted to a more comfortable stance and took in the elder Holmes. Still looking the picture of the bureaucrat, but for the tired weight at his shoulders and the seriousness set in his eyes, Mycroft was almost unreadable. "How are you holding up?"

Mycroft's guard never wavered. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the question, but his expression didn't reveal any information. It was unnerving, if you knew what to look for - a smoothing over of normal human reactions that made the man seem cold and almost mechanical. "Fine, now that we have a possibility to explore. Simply knowing Sherlock is still alive is gratifying enough."

Greg shifted, clearly not knowing what else to do with himself. There was little inflection in Mycroft's words and, understandable a relief as it was, it didn't give Greg much to go on. Finally, he just swallowed and nodded. The subtle glance he gave Mycroft out of the corner of his eye said he had doubts just how 'fine' he really was. "Right."

John's footfalls came back up the stairs. 

Mycroft's gaze lingered a bit too long for the DI's comfort, perhaps drawn by the disbelief he could hear in that one brief word. Both brothers seemed to have inherited the ability to make one feel like one was pinned down on a lab table, all barriers peeled back to reveal the innermost secrets of the mind. Grey eyes swept Greg from head to toe before Lestrade was released by John's return.

"Since Mrs. Hudson has just agreed to watch the premises for the duration, John, you should gather your things. Customs and security will not be an issue."

John closed his mouth. Mycroft had anticipated exactly what he was about to tell them. When the doctor got over his surprise, he was moving again. "I'll just need a few minutes." 

"I'd better pop out and pack a bag myself," Greg shrugged his coat back on and stepped toward the door before he turned, glancing back at the stoic Holmes, visibly a little unnerved at the man's quiet intensity, but meeting his gaze anyway. "Don't leave without me."

Mycroft smiled. It was perfect - the curves were just right, and his eyes crinkled slightly. It should have been warm, but it felt practiced instead. "I have no intention of leaving you behind, Detective Inspector. I value your company and your collaboration. It would be beyond rude of me to deny you the opportunity to participate, at this point in time."

"Hold you to that," Greg said and with one last nod, he was heading down the stairs. 

There was a lot of clattering about from upstairs and it was several more minutes before John returned with a single suitcase, packed tight and probably not very well judging from the way the zipper didn't close all the way. John looked a little tense when he set it down beside him and wetted his lips. "Do you think Moriarty will know we're coming?"

"If he doesn't know now, I'm presuming he'll know once we land, despite all precautions." Mycroft's expression flickered for a fraction of a second, somewhere between irritation and respect. "He will have a network in place, not only to facilitate crimes, but to gather information. He also will have planned for the possibility that I might locate him. We're going to have to play on a board weighted against us, without being able to see all the pieces."

John breathed out quietly. His back straightened. Mycroft was hinting that they might be there for a long time, but John already knew how badly things could go from the moment they set down in New York. They had plenty of determination on their side, but Moriarty already stacked the cards against them. It took some internal adjusting, but after John schooled himself, he looked like he was willing to go to war again. "I'm ready."

Mycroft tucked the laptop back in its case and rose from his chair. Sherlock's old chair. There was an air of finality to the room - they would return with Sherlock, one way or another, or they wouldn't return at all. "My driver is waiting outside to bring us to the airport. Once Detective Inspector Lestrade arrives, we'll depart."

John's hand clenched and unclenched reflexively, and Mycroft softened ever so slightly. "We will find him, John."

The doctor's eyes closed. He swallowed. He picked up his suitcase. "I believe you." 

It took a lot out of John to really do so. He'd been in denial before, but now it had suddenly and chaotically reversed on him. But it was, of course, everything that came after they found Sherlock that pulled both their insides taut with apprehension. Their eyes met and, briefly, John could believe he understood how Mycroft felt, even if he wasn't showing it. John was feeling it himself. 

They made for the door, John letting Mycroft out before he closed and locked it behind him, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind to tend to the flat while its tenants were away. John looked up at the building before he turned to join Mycroft at the car. His time with Sherlock was wrapped up in that place. When he turned and stepped down to the sidewalk, suitcase a lead weight in his hand, he could only hope that they would return safely. 

The plane ride was, all in all, long and uncomfortable. With the three of them trapped in a personal jet acquired by Mycroft for hours upon hours and the weight of Sherlock's revelation hanging over them, there wasn't much conversation to be had. And none of them wanted to speculate. 

John spent most of his time staring out the window with his head against the glass. Occasionally he would try to nap, but never quite managed it. From the pallor and expression he couldn't wipe from his face, they could tell he was sick with nerves. Greg, for his part, didn't try to talk to him much, but went to get him another bottle of water or a sandwich whenever John would accept one. 

Mycroft had, under the circumstances, seemed the more put together of the two, and so Greg shot him worried glances whenever John seemed particularly despondent. None were met with much help, as Mycroft had his own thoughts to worry over. 

It was well into the morning by the time they landed. The sun was down and only the barest hint of light softened the black sky. But it was the lights of New York that took their breathe away. 

John had been the first to see it in the distance. His eyes snapped to the glittering pinhole in the dark below them until it grew to a sprawling network of spires and color and Greg finally joined him at the window. John seemed pulled to it, knowing Sherlock was down there, lost somewhere in the enormous web of light. 

The air was just as frozen when they stepped onto the tarmac, and though no one of them had slept all night, their pulses ran high with anticipation. 

Mycroft seem cold and immoveable, frozen by the chilly night as they stepped out. The city lights held no draw - he'd seen them many times before, and his eyes were someplace else, tracing out pathways that only he could see.

There was one man waiting for them, dressed with some formality and difficult to place. He wasn't crisp enough to be a businessman or politician, but didn't have the weight to his frame that most associated with a bodyguard. For all of that, he could have been one - formal introductions were skipped in favor of checking the cargo hold, then unloading the luggage. Without a cart, it was clear that everyone was expected to tend to their own things.

"Keep close." Mycroft blinked, as if he hadn't expected the words to come out quite so rough, despite hours of silence. A gesture had their silent companion striding ahead of them to fetch a car. 

John and Greg glanced between one another, but it was brief and they followed quickly. They hauled their bags along behind Mycroft, not too far and having to hurry to keep up. Much in the way they had left the airport, it looked like they would be circumventing security entirely. John tightened his hold on his suitcase and quickened his step. Greg watched Mycroft's man run ahead. In a professional manner, he picked up curiously on the way the man responded to the elder Holmes's silent gestures. 

A car pulled around, the new man now seated behind the wheel. The model wasn't unusually large, and it certainly wasn't as conspicuous as the black government vehicles Mycroft tended to use back home, but the glass was tinted and a little bit odd. Lestrade spotted it as they climbed in and got settled in the back - bulletproof. With specialty glass, it was likely the rest of the car was armored as well.

Mycroft caught Greg's look and raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to comment. The car began to move as soon as the doors closed. "While we're here, I'm going to have to insist on a few ground rules. We need to keep a low profile, so we will limit how and when we travel. Neither of you will go anywhere alone, and you will inform me before you leave."

"You'll be doing the same then, yes?" John countered, unwilling to let Mycroft slip away with the chance he would go after Sherlock alone. The doctor's eyes were clear in passing street lamps. He wasn't angry with Mycroft, but the set of his posture broadcast to everyone in the car that he would not budge on this. 

Lestrade glanced between them with a bite to his lip. 

"I cannot promise the same, no." Mycroft's attention turned to John the moment the doctor took an angry breath to voice his discontent. "Understand, John. There are places I can go that you both cannot, people who will only talk to me. I wouldn't get any information if you were present to overhear. I will," he added, "relate what I learn to you both whenever I return. I simply cannot take you with me."

John's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue further. He understood what Mycroft was telling him, even if he didn't like it. His eyes darted to the window, breaking contact. Altogether, John hadn't quite lost that look like he expected to catch sight of Sherlock out there on the street corner. 

Greg bit his lip. "Not sure how much help we'll be, cooped up inside while you're on the hunt."

Mycroft's gaze resettled on Greg, lingering just a fraction of a second too long on his mouth. "I don't plan on keeping you both locked up. The restriction will only apply with certain places and certain contacts. Once we know for certain where Sherlock and Moriarty are, things will get busy very quickly. A number of actions will have to happen all at once in order to cut Moriarty off from his network, entrap him, and safely extract Sherlock from the situation."

"Alright," the former DI nodded. He leaned forward. "So what have we got to work with here? I can tell you've got contacts with some level of the government, but I've left all mine back at home with the Met and, you'll have to forgive me, but I still don't know what it is exactly that you do."

John must have explained some of it to Lestrade by now, but even John, still staring out the window, barely knew what Mycroft did. 

"I have enough contacts with sway in the government to give us quite a bit of leeway, particularly concerning how many favors they owe me. Once we get settled, you'll have access to several databases. They'll be built differently than what the Met is used to, of course, but similar enough." 

Mycroft's hands laced together and clenched. Whatever emotions he was feeling, none of them were reflected on his face. "You will need to sniff out patterns. Sort through recent reports for unusual crimes, particularly unsolved ones, which have occurred since Sherlock disappeared. We'll concentrate on New York City at first. If it seems likely that they've left the area, we'll broaden the search. We need to find out what kind of support network Moriarty has here, who his contacts might be."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "You suspect Moriarty hasn't taken a break from his not so very subtle crime spree then? Even though he's gotten what he wanted?" Gotten Sherlock.

John shifted, tense and disliking what Greg was saying. He didn't look like he wanted to be reminded of the precise ways in which Moriarty obtained his best friend. "What kind of _unusual_ crimes?" he bit out. 

"I suspect that Moriarty has been operating in the world of organized crime for years, before he decided his possessions would be enriched through the acquiring of my brother," Mycroft responded dryly. "We're looking for crimes that are a bit theatrical, but also too smooth. A flashy show, coupled with enough skill that the authorities lack much in the way of concrete evidence. It needn't be murders - that was only a requirement to hook Sherlock into the cases leading to his capture, given that he predominantly works with homicides."

John sucked on his lip and turned back to the window, frowning. 

"Best get to work right away. We'll have quite a bit to dig through, I'm sure." Lestrade sat back and rubbed his eyes. Depending on how outrageously Moriarty had been operating on this side of the Atlantic, they might either find evidence of him right away, or it could be impossibly difficult. There hadn't been a lot to link the crimes themselves together enough to see a particular "style" when they'd been hunting him down the last time, apart from becoming more and more brutal. Moriarty had had to string them along with deliberate clues. But, that in itself was inherently theatrical. 

Their car slowed. Even this early in the morning there was a healthy amount of traffic. And it had begun to rain heavy drops against John's window. 

"Both of you have spent some time working with Sherlock, enough that you'll have begun to pick up on some of his methods, regardless of whether you believe it or not. You'll need to work together to find the patterns." 

Their car turned off the main roads and picked up the pace slightly, crawling through back streets. They weren't quite in the heart of the city anymore. Embassies appeared here and there on either side of the street, and the vaguely familiar outline of the United Nations could be seen over the nearby buildings. The vehicle turned again, then entered a secured garage attached to a small hotel. Small, at least, by New York standards.

John didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. Everyone in the car knew he didn't want to think about the possibility of Sherlock working with Moriarty, even out of boredom or direct coercion. As soon as he was able, he got out of the car. Greg followed quickly. 

The lot was empty. Their steps echoed against the cold concrete and created the uneasy sense that they would be easily overheard should they speak too loudly. Both hefted their bags over their shoulders and waited for Mycroft. 

Mycroft retrieved his own luggage. It didn't look quite right; despite the way he moved without hesitation, Mycroft didn't look like someone who carried his own things. Still, he gave one last nod to the driver and led Greg and John towards the entrance proper, leaving the driver behind.

Glass doors slid open and let them into an opulent lobby. Rich carpet made a striking contrast against patterned marble, making the hotel feel more like a historical building back in the UK than something modern set in an American metropolis. Mycroft checked them in with the receptionist and handed each of them a key card before leading them to the lifts.

Lestrade glanced around in obvious curiosity while John remained a bit dour, even if he eyed the empty lobby once or twice. It was…quite regal. Just standing in it made them seem underdressed. 

They followed Mycroft in silence, catching the elevator and then staring at the polished metal door when it slid shut. John was lost in his head. Everything they'd learned about Sherlock was visibly eating at him. Greg shifted on the other side of Mycroft's shoulder, awkward with the three of them standing there, waiting until, finally, the door opened. 

Even lost in his own thoughts as he was, Mycroft couldn't fail to notice John's spirits taking a turn for the worst. Grey eyes kept watch on the Doctor's form as they entered the suite of rooms they'd been given. "Bedrooms should be off to the right. Detective Inspector Lestrade, if you would be so kind as to choose one and get settled in, I'd like a moment with John. Please." 

Lestrade jerked his head in a nod to John and spared a fleeting glance for Mycroft before he took his luggage down the short hall. 

John eyed Mycroft warily at first. He hadn't expected to be singled out. He tightened his arms around himself defensively, even if he looked like he was trying to open up his expression and let his guard down to the man he'd been tentatively getting to know for the past few weeks, all at the very same time. He might have been deciding on what to say, but from the way he wetted his lips and still didn't speak, he was coming up blank. Mycroft already saw how anxious he was already. 

Mycroft's detached veneer dropped ever so slightly. He and John had been getting to know each other, if at a far slower pace than had happened with Sherlock. Different as the brothers were, the way Mycroft was currently regarding John was eerily close to how Sherlock used to look when he knew John was bothered and was puzzling out how to fix things.

"I know you don't want to think about it, John. It's not particularly easy for me to consider, either."

John closed his mouth and his shoulders slumped. He couldn't help leaning toward Mycroft and the olive branch he offered. "It…It'll be easier, I think, just to see some trace of him. I can't. I can still barely believe this isn't all just my wistful imagination." The doctor tried for a wry smile, but the lines around his mouth were too drawn. He shook his head. "I can barely believe that much, and then, thinking that now that he is alive he's…involved with Moriarty's work somehow... I just don't know how to do it." 

"You entered his life two years after he cleaned himself up, so you never saw Sherlock at his lowest point." Mycroft's jaw set into a hard line, echoes of Sherlock's words from that period still ringing in his ears. "Sherlock is more vulnerable than he'll admit to anyone, least of all himself. I have no doubt Moriarty will have clashed against his anger and stubbornness, but his uncertainty, grief, fear, shame... too much would have been close to the surface and easy to manipulate. Sherlock has always handled his emotions poorly, particularly without a support network, and his support had been forcibly ripped away."

Mycroft sighed and his shoulders dropped slightly, his one physical concession to the weight of the situation. "Without anything to fall back on, Sherlock will grab onto anything to stop himself from drowning. Given what I can infer about Moriarty's personality, he'll have stepped forward to become Sherlock's crutch and take advantage of my brother's inclination towards codependency. It doesn't mean we've lost him, any more than I lost him to drugs before. It will simply be a more difficult fight to gain him back."

John's jaw tightened. Mycroft's words struck in him the beginnings of a deep anger with Moriarty, far deeper than he'd felt before. Before, Moriarty was just another psychotic criminal, just the one who'd happened to send Sherlock into a perfect trap and off a bridge. He was hated, absolutely, but he was also akin to a natural disaster. Now, he was not only a psychopath who had taken John's best friend, but through the most deceitful manipulation, _kept_ him as well. 

"Whatever it takes," John said quietly, meeting Mycroft's eyes. For the first time perhaps, John's anger was ramping up to level with Mycroft's. 

"Yes, whatever it takes." Fights over family matters, drugs, and control had broken Mycroft's relationship with Sherlock. He could only hope that John's remained intact. Much as he'd wish that Sherlock would open up and seek support from him, Mycroft knew it was unlikely. Sherlock needed _someone_ to catch him when they got him back, and given how deeply Sherlock had cared for the doctor before Moriarty's nightmarish chain of events, John was who Mycroft was hanging his hopes on. 

Mycroft's gaze lingered a moment too long and the silence stretched that much longer. John couldn't know his thoughts, but he felt the weight of it all the same and his eyes drifted back toward the window. 

Sherlock was out there somewhere, and they had to find him. John would stay as long as it took. However long he had to. He couldn't give Sherlock up, that he knew unquestionably. With a new resolution in his posture, he turned back to Mycroft. John was grateful he was there, and it showed in his gaze. 

"I'd better go unpack. And let Greg out."

Mycroft nodded. Colour had returned to John's face and he no longer looked like the walking wounded. Mycroft would count it as a victory. "I should do the same. If you need anything, I'm taking the bedroom next to the kitchen." 

"Right." John gave Mycroft a small smile, picked up his suitcase, and went to find the unoccupied room.   
He stopped and gave a knock at the one Greg had taken, letting him know the coast was clear. The detective poked his head out, looked John up and down, and must have decided he believed him because he didn't inquire further before John went to bed, shutting the door behind him softly. 

Lestrade caught sight of Mycroft picking up his things in the sitting area and slowly made his way back into the hall. 

Mycroft must have heard him, even as quiet as Greg was being. He hadn't even entered the room before a wary stiffness settled into Mycroft's frame. He straightened slowly before turning around to face Lestrade. "Is there something I can do for you, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade rubbed his hands together, giving them something to do while he looked around the room. It could be described as nothing short of luxurious, and not exactly where Greg had expected to be staying if he had envisioned their rooms to look any certain way at all. It was, however, difficult to keep his eyes away from Mycroft and the man's piercing stare. Greg sighed and dropped the pretense a bit. "You two alright?"

"I believe John will be alright now. He was disheartened by my earlier suggestions. It was only right to put his mind at ease and give him a bit of hope. "Mycroft normally tempered the amount of time he looked at either John or Greg, whether out of politeness or an awareness that he created a sense of disquiet. He didn't glance away this time. 

It was a few beats too long before Greg broke their contact, but soon found that he didn't have anywhere else to look. Mycroft's focused stillness was more intense than even Sherlock's. He looked like he was pulling out every stray thought that ran through Grey's head as if they were written on cue cards. Greg glanced to the floor, but found himself looking back again, even in the face of Mycroft's sharp focus. 

"So…" Greg sighed, covering for the tension in his stomach under Mycroft's scrutiny. "Tomorrow we get the lay of the land, huh?"

"Tonight, actually. I have a few things to finish arranging, and a few avenues for gathering data that don't require legwork on my part." It appeared that Sherlock wasn't the only Holmes that fell into insomnia when faced with a challenge.

Mycroft paused, taking a moment to gauge the man's stress levels. "...there's no need to be so anxious."

Greg gave a laugh. "I don't even know why I am…" But he trailed off quickly. He glanced up at Mycroft, a man more like a marble statue than flesh and bone, and Greg looked like it might have dawned on him then. Mycroft had a way of unsettling people, and even though Greg had been getting to know him in his more innocuous moods, the detective was not immune to it. When he thought about that, it bothered him a bit, that there was a coiling in his gut of…not unease, but anxiety, when the man fixed him with his gaze. Greg was supposed to keep his cool better than that. He stepped farther into the room, leaning his hands against the back of a uniquely upholstered chair, just to prove that he could. "Must be everything hitting me at once."

"Quite. Chaotically busy as the schedule of a homicide detective must be, our current situation is a very different medley of pressures than you are used to dealing with." Mycroft finally uncurled his hand from where it had been resting atop his suitcase. Greg was making a good pretense at being at ease, but not quite good enough. Mycroft hesitated, then took a gamble and stepped closer. "I can only offer you the same reassurances I offered Doctor Watson; we'll get Sherlock back, one way or another. I refused to lose him to his drug habits, and I won't lose him to this."

There was a degree of steel under Mycroft's exterior that Greg noticed right away. He may not have been a man of action, as some might call it, but Mycroft seemed just as ready for the hunt he was made for. Greg didn't move, but his fingers tightened on the back of the chair. The slant of Mycroft's eyes and the conviction in his voice sent the detective's pulse up. It was inspiring. "I believe you." Anyone would when faced with determination like that. 

Mycroft watched Greg's reaction with interest, noting the way the detective's eyes darkened and his tension shifted focus. A quiet smile graced his mouth in response, a more human expression than he'd allowed himself in the past few weeks. "You should at least make an attempt to get some rest while you can."

Greg raised a brow in challenge. "I should say the same to you. You'll knock yourself out if you stay up all night." He knew he couldn't expect Mycroft to get to sleep now that they'd landed in New York, not with contacts out there and channels just waiting to be opened and Sherlock just out of sight but so, so close. So Greg straightened his back and stood in the glow of the single lamp in the room, lighting up his silver hair, and leveled Mycroft with a stare of his own. "If you're still up by morning, I'm sending you to bed."

Something shifted in Mycroft's eyes at that, responding to the way Greg was trying to project authority and control. And perhaps, if he was completely honest with himself, there was something to the detective's choice in words and the way the solitary light source painted Greg's face into a study of contrasts and pleasing angles. "I should like to see just how you'd propose to enforce such an impossible threat."

"Yes, well. So should I," Greg admitted, but raised his chin to challenge Mycroft anyway. It felt good, bringing just a hint of levity to the room and seeing Mycroft respond to it with the subtlest of motions. Getting a man like that to lighten in the slightest felt like moving mountains. "Something you wouldn't want to risk, I'm sure." 

"I wouldn't be so sure, if I were you. It would be a grave misjudgment to think me any less tenacious than Sherlock." Mycroft took a moment to discreetly admire the arch of neck Greg had just exposed. "I wouldn't begrudge you the attempt, but even hopeless battles come with a dear cost."

Greg's mouth pulled into a wry smile, half bemused, partially tinged with unease. "That sounds like a threat." 

Mycroft was teasing, sort of. Greg could tell. He just couldn't tell how much, silly as the discussion in question was. He didn't seriously think Mycroft would retaliate in any dire way over taking a nap, but he got the feeling that the elder Holmes was speaking of battles in a more general sense. 

"Don't tell me you always threaten people who have your better interests in mind." 

Mycroft tilted his head curiously, his gaze sliding off to one side for a moment. "...I can't say I've encountered enough individuals who 'have my better interests in mind' to give you a definitive answer. My colleagues have never attempted to coerce me into such things and force my hand."

Mycroft blinked, then looked away for once. It was a surprisingly shy movement for a man who'd spent the majority of the conversation intimidating Greg via presence alone.

"Oh." It was clear from the detective's tone he hadn't been expecting that, but at the same time, they already were in a fairly melancholy place. Mycroft's tension may have spiked, but Greg's eased a bit. Once again, he was reminded that Mycroft was human, after all. "Well. Never too late to learn I suppose." 

"Perhaps so." Mycroft sounded uncertain. This was unfamiliar territory, far from the complicated games of manipulation and strategy he was used to playing, where each side was ruthlessly out for its own interests. If Lestrade was selfishly motivated, his end goals weren't obvious.

Mycroft opened his mouth, realized he had no idea what to say, and shut it again. The notion of not claiming the position of caretaker, for once, was more disconcerting than he cared to admit.

He only got furrowed brows in response, as Greg didn't understand him any better than he did the detective. Eventually, Greg just nodded. "Make sure you get some rest." His voice was earnest, and so was the look in his eyes. He waited for his gaze to be met, making sure Mycroft saw whatever he could see in him and hoping that it would provide some comfort. John had his own demons to deal with and they were keeping him occupied. But Greg could see that Mycroft had them, too. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight." Lestrade's name felt heavy on Mycroft's tongue, unsaid. Too much familiarity was dangerous, was opening a door to weakness he couldn't afford. Was inappropriate. Still, the beat of silence that followed was potent enough that Mycroft worried Greg could hear the omission merely by examining the hole in the air where it should have been.

Mycroft gave Lestrade one last, polite smile and stepped back, taking hold of his suitcase once more and turning towards his own room.

Greg was stepping back, but he couldn't help but watch him go. Mycroft's tall, slender figure moved into the darkness like he were gliding. When the door clicked shut behind him, Greg remembered himself. He glanced down at his hands, rough, nails blunted, hard where Mycroft's had in contrast always looked almost delicate. He had to stop and wonder what they were all getting themselves into. He had learned through their brief meetings that Sherlock's brother was not at all as soft or unassuming as he appeared at times, far from it, but even he had been taken off guard by Moriarty. They all had. 

He ran one hand over his tired eyes and turned back to his own room. One thing was for certain, they would indeed have a battle ahead of them.

* * *

For Sherlock, weeks passed in a blur. Non-stop activity coupled with a sort of contentment that he had never experienced before. No matter what the latest job was - helping Jim take over a rival crime ring, locating the right psychological pressure points to make an informant unravel, securing a "donor" for a politician's needed organ transplants - Jim was right beside him, watching, making sure the work was engaging. Enjoying the fact that Sherlock was beginning to relax and enjoy himself.

And he was. Jim had positioned himself to be a part of everything, to be the center of Sherlock's life, and time had smoothed things to the point that Sherlock didn't merely accept the change. He _wanted_ it. The former detective was beginning to find it hard to imagine life without his new companion. It was beginning to feel like Jim had _always_ been there.

The harmony of this new life wasn't without its jagged edges. Forgiven as Jim was, Sherlock's mood was still unstable. Small things triggered rapid changes, sending him spiraling down to melancholy or rage, or pushing Sherlock into a manic, frenzied state. His substance use didn't help matters. Sherlock had begun to notice sideways glances from Jim when Sherlock's attention was elsewhere. There was a softness to the edges of his thoughts and a minute hesitation in his fingering when he played the violin, now. Sherlock knew a storm was coming, and even that wasn't motivation enough to permit him to stop.

Luckily enough, his slight degeneration hadn't yet proven detrimental to his abilities in chemistry. Jim had requested a medley of poisons and sedatives for an upcoming job. Sherlock knew that Jim was trying to keep him occupied and test his current functionality, as he was more than capable of purchasing such things without being traced, but Sherlock hadn't complained. Lab work had been something he'd missed, lately. Lab work and his experiments.

And with perfect timing, the front door downstairs opened, heralding the arrival of the latter. Sebastian's heavy groan and familiar boots on the tile came next. Something hard hit the ground with a sharp thud and a second something, probably quite heavy, followed. Jim's sniper had brought home presents. 

Sebastian had taken an instant liking to Sherlock's requests of him. The detective proved to be very focused on the specifics of a job that were often, coincidentally or not so, right up Seb's alley. And whenever Sherlock had a particularly brutal idea, he was usually the one to carry it out. In that way, Sherlock was very much like Jim and Sebastian made no attempt at concealing how much he liked the way the detective's mind worked. In return, he began going out of his way to provide Sherlock with adequate materials for his personal studies, more adequate than he'd ever been able to acquire before. 

Heavy boots began to climb the stairs and soon enough, there was a light knock at the lab room door. 

It took a moment for Sherlock to process the sounds. As soon as he did, his attention began to fray, but the reaction in the flasks in front of him weren't _quite_ done yet. "Come in!" 

Sherlock heard the door open behind him. His pulse quickened, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on his work. He didn't want to have to start all over again. Even more, he didn't want to give Jim further reason to doubt how well he was functioning. Botching simple compounds would draw attention he didn't want. "It sounds like your latest outing was successful."

"Very." There was a smile in Sebastian's voice and the way he let the word linger on his tongue. He moved up behind Sherlock slowly, sensing the detective's interest but noticing his obvious reluctance to turn around. Large hands brushed lightly over Sherlock's hips and the man's body heat radiated against Sherlock's back as Sebastian looked over his shoulder. The array of vials and chemicals spread out on the worktable were a mystery to Sebastian, but he knew what Sherlock was doing. Seb would have the privilege of administering his poison. "I think you'll like what I've brought you," he breathed against the back of Sherlock's neck. "Very fresh."

Sherlock shivered under Seb's hands. From the chuckle that immediately followed, it was obvious that Sebastian knew precisely how distracting he was being. Sherlock made a mental note to educate the man on how ill-advised it was to interrupt him while he was working. "Good. It will be nice to be able to run tests _without_ embalming chemicals interfering."

The hands at his hips slid forward and rubbed into the dip above his thighs, pressing and teasing. "How much longer will you be?"

Jim would be out late, and Sebastian was clearly interested in taking up more of Sherlock's time by himself. He still didn't try anything with the detective in front of Jim, anticipating his boss's jealousy, not unless Sherlock initiated it. As fluidly as they had been working, between the three of them there was still that minor uncertainty. 

"Only a few more minutes, if you can restrain yourself long enough for me to stabilize the compounds. I hardly think you want a poor quality substance when Jim specified that he wanted potency and subtlety. You'll be able to finish the job regardless, but Jim won't be happy." _With either of us_ went unsaid.

Still, Sherlock covered one of the calloused hands on his sides with his own. Seb wasn't unwelcome, just _inconvenient_ at the moment. "Go put things on ice. I don't want things spoiled before I have a chance to work with them." Sebastian clearly wasn't going to simply drop off the body parts and let him experiment.

The brush of stubble preceded the man's kiss against Sherlock's neck, but he pulled back and left to do as asked. "When you're ready, come to the shower." 

His footfalls descended the stairs a moment later, leaving the detective to muse over what he had in store for them. Sebastian wasn't prone to showing off in the exaggerated, showy manner Jim was, not unless he was putting on the charm for a client. When Sebastian wanted to impress one of them, he was subtle about it until the reveal. 

There was more to it than just coming down from the high of the job, Sherlock decided. Seb was proud of his work, proud of the things he'd brought home to fulfill Sherlock's request, and brimming with adrenaline, but there was something else. The bodyguard had a quiet confidence that told Sherlock he'd done something else, perhaps brought something else, as a surprise.

An idea occurred to Sherlock and sent a ripple of lust through him. The last few minutes crawled by before he was able to finish up his work and set the last compound aside in its container. His own rooms were quiet and deserted when he exited the lab room. Evidently Seb had meant a different shower.

Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs seemed abnormally loud as he descended to the lower level. He paused for a moment before deciding to check Jim's rooms first, as Seb's quarters didn't include a very spacious shower. 

He encountered a trail of clothing on the floor. Seb's discarded boots, the strap of his belt, the worn shirt he'd been wearing, were all strewn through Jim's rooms until Sherlock reached the light of the bathroom where he found a stain of red dripped across the floor, leading in a perfectly tantalizing line directly to Sebastian. Shirtless, barefoot, with trousers slung low on his hips and his back to the door, and when he heard Sherlock's approach, he turned. His hands were soaked with blood and his face drew into a grin while he lifted one then the other over his shoulders to let it drip down his torso, running red rivulets over scarred skin. There, at his feet was a bucket filled with it. 

The transformation that provoked in Sherlock was nigh-instantaneous. A slightly crazed, hungry look entered his slanted eyes, which stayed fixed on Sebastian as he moved. He seemed unaware of the fact that he, himself, was still clothed. Slender fingers reached out in his haste to get closer and followed one of the crimson lines until the tips were coated.

Sherlock didn't have a witty rejoinder. Seb had done well, and he'd known as much before they'd even begun.

Seb bent and dipped his hands again, lifting them and taking hold of the long fingers at his chest, coating them with it while heated grey eyes watched. It wasn't yet completely cold, and that meant it would have been taken within the hour. Sebastian must have rushed to get back. He didn't need the detective's words, although some part of him must have been amused at Sherlock's speechlessness. He went for the buttons at Sherlock's chest, dirtying the fabric of his shirt without care. He could buy another. Roughly, Seb pulled the material free of his waistband and pushed it over Sherlock's shoulders. It fell to the floor and an expanse of skin, untouched by claws and the sun lay beneath. 

Jim's shower was perfect for this, luxurious and expansive. Seb took hold of Sherlock's arms and drew him in farther, letting the back of his knees hit the tile bench beside the stall. 

The motion prompted Sherlock into action. A wordless negotiation was already happening. Sherlock closed the distance between them with a suddenness that almost knocked Sebastian off-balance, his tongue following a rivulet up the man's chest before his mouth found his neck. The bodyguard had been thoughtful enough to add an anticoagulant to the mix, just enough to keep the blood from becoming a clotted, uncooperative mess.

"Just what I wanted," Sherlock murmured into Seb's ear. Pressed together as they were, it took hardly any effort to generate a teasing amount of friction.

"Oh yeah…I remembered," Sebastian breathed in agreement. Ever since their encounter after the first torture Sherlock witnessed, the detective's unusual proclivities had been transparent to Sebastian. At least with this specific interest. "It's something I can relate to. Even though I far prefer it with a nice, warm body under my hands…." Seb's hips rocked into his. One strong arm drew Sherlock against him, chest to chest, feeling the slick slide of the blood between them before Sebastian's other hand closed around the back of Sherlock's neck. Wrapped up tight in the larger man's arms like that, even with someone else's blood flowing between them, it wasn't hard to imagine what one of Seb's victims might have felt before they died. 

Sherlock's absent sense of self-preservation was at the fore. To him, it _was_ a safe thrill. Much as Sebastian might desire to hurt Sherlock, he wouldn't. Sherlock could indulge in the fantasy of being somewhere between Seb's accomplice and his victim and come out safe on the other side. 

"Does it matter if the body is willing?" Sherlock relaxed into Seb's grip, letting his head fall back and exposing his neck. Or, more precisely, the other man's bloody fingers on his neck, keeping his eyes fixed on Seb's face to gauge his reaction. 

Sebastian's eyes narrowed and his grin drew wider. "No." 

His other hand came up to stroke along the front of Sherlock's neck, never grasping, never tightening, not while the first held Sherlock still from behind, but running red streaks down the protruding veins beneath his skin. Sebastian could see the tendons, the windpipe, he could see everything that he would need to crush to end Sherlock's life, but still his hands remained restrained. 

"Most of the time," Seb went on, "I can appreciate a good fight."

"Only most of the time?" Sherlock's voice was a rasp. Seb's expression was familiar, echoed from the killers Sherlock used to catch and the particularly vicious glint that lit up Jim's eyes from time to time. Sherlock drank it all in and licked his lips. He jerked slightly as droplets trickled slowly down from his neck to his navel and began to stain the waistband of his trousers. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Do you _want_ me to put up a fight?"

Sebastian was just starting to reach down to wet his hands in the bucket again when Sherlock felt a full bodied shudder go through his large frame. He stopped and pressed a hand against Sherlock's lower back, obviously finding it difficult to keep himself restrained. When he turned back to meet the detective's mischievous eyes, he was alight with such lust that Sherlock could practically feel it. He leaned back up and bit softly at Sherlock's jaw. "Only if you don't complain later." 

Sherlock's smile vanished, leaving him dark-eyed and solemn. Sebastian could practically see him weighing the possibilities. Sherlock was having trouble keeping still, between the way Seb was looking at him and the sudden tension in the man's body. "Will you be able to control yourself?" he asked softly. "I don't want permanent damage. Or anything that will impose severe restrictions on my capabilities. I think you know how Jim will react if you overdo things." 

Seb had to let the breath between his lips out slowly, just to calm his racing blood. " _Yes_ ," he breathed. Jim would make him suffer through the rest of his sure to be pitifully short life if he injured Sherlock in any lasting way. His hands came up to the sides of Sherlock's face and they looked at each other, each calculating exactly what he wanted and what was wanted from him. 

"Fear," Sherlock murmured, "is a curious thing. A drug in its own way, and a tool for heightened pleasure, just as pain can be when used in moderation." Sebastian likely knew this already, but he was looking for guidance. Sherlock hoped this set the proper framework. 

"You don't touch him in any of the ways you'd like to, both because he won't let you and because you know what the consequences would be, and so this is a piece of you that he doesn't have." Sherlock paused to breathe, ignoring the way the room seemed to be tilting on its axis. "It's untouched, and I want it for myself."

Sebastian had never thought of his sadistic side as something that could be called 'untouched'. Jim coveted it. He loved it in Sebastian and used it to his own ends in Sebastian's work. But Jim had never allowed it to into their own relationship. Jim had never allowed it to touch him, no matter how Sebastian dreamed of doing so, of having Jim under him willing or not. Blue eyes turned electric as they stared at Sherlock. They were scant centimeters apart, so close that Sebastian could see every single lash around Sherlock's pale eyes and Sherlock could see the minute variations in the grooved line of the scar running down the side of Sebastian's face. "You do?"

"Why would I lie about it?" Seb was trapped between Jim and himself, but the idea of _having_ a portion of the gunman that Jim didn't, even knowing that pain would be involved... was more than a little appealing. The entire experience would be an experiment in itself. "It's crossed my mind several times since that first night. Particularly when you suppressed your tendency towards aggressive dominance shortly thereafter in all our encounters."

Seb's hands drifted down Sherlock's spine, pressing their lower halves flush against one another. Sherlock could feel how hard Seb already was. His hands drifted back up, slowly, until one reached the back of Sherlock's head, wound through his curls and pulled his head back roughly. Seb leaned over him with teeth clenched and exposed in a grin of anticipation. "In that case…. You don't have to ask me twice." 

And then he was forcing Sherlock down, buckling his knees and bringing Sherlock to the floor. 

Sherlock instantly tensed in an attempt to resist, jerking to one side only for the hand tangled in his hair to pull him back roughly. Both of them were equal in height, but Sherlock wasn't anywhere near a match for Seb in terms of muscle. Particularly lately, with the way the drugs had begun to whittle away at his already slender frame. Sherlock bared his teeth and glanced up at Seb through dark lashes. A glint sparked in his eyes, and he snapped at the nearest patch of bare skin.

When Sherlock's teeth sank into his forearm, Seb hissed in both pain and delight. They hadn't put much limit on how much he was allowed to hurt Seb in return, and Seb didn't expect him to. If Sherlock found the upper hand and got carried away, he would have to rely on his own resources to get himself out of it, or be seriously hurt in the process. Fortunately, Seb also knew Sherlock wanted and needed him well enough to work. 

" _That's it_ ," Sebastian hissed. Their legs knocked against the bucket as they scrabbled on the dark tile floor and sent blood splashing over the rim. Seb reached for it with his free hand and came back to grip Sherlock's throat with an arm soaked in it. 

Sherlock smirked at Sebastian, even as the man's fingers wrapped around his neck. His jaw loosened and he started laughing as soon as Seb yanked his forearm free. "You made that too easy. I did say I was going to fight back." Sherlock's voice was cut off as Seb's hand tightened its hold. Unable to speak, Sherlock contented himself with admiring the teeth marks he'd left on the man's skin.

Seb ignored Sherlock's laughter, but gave him a grin in return. He wedged his hips in between Sherlock's long legs, having to struggle for it, but once he was there his free hand went for the fastenings of Sherlock's trousers, undoing them quickly and shoving his hand between the flesh and rough fabric. Seb leaned in close and squeezed. It was nearly painful until he eased off a bit to stroke. He had Sherlock pressed to the floor, keeping him down with his weight alone, and every squirm they made was slippery against the slick tile. Every way they turned left red streaks behind. 

Sherlock's hiss was partially strangled by Seb's grip on his throat. He knew he couldn't toss the man off of him, not pinned like this, but he tried anyway. His legs kicked out, trying to find purchase. One hand tried to pry Seb's fingers from his neck while the other tried to claw every bit of Seb that was in reach. Fingernails found skin and left marks, pitiful when compared to the claws Seb had already endured and survived.

The man bent low over him, hovering over Sherlock's mouth. Through all of it, he managed to keep his hold on Sherlock's cock, but just barely. "I've heard there's a special kind of euphoria that goes with coming at the same time you're being strangled." There was a glint of wanton danger in Sebastian's eye. "I'd say let's find out, but I'm not quite done with you yet." When his grip slackened, Sebastian's mouth closed over Sherlock's. 

Sherlock writhed and bit at him, teeth catching Seb's lip just long enough to split it. The tang of copper hit his tongue, and suddenly his priorities changed. Instead of trying to fight Seb off, he arched to get closer, wanting another taste. Sebastian had pulled back until he was just out of reach, and a sound of frustration escaped Sherlock. "Get back here." 

He was met with a deep chuckle. Seb leaned in and pulled back again teasingly, keeping Sherlock pressed to the floor when he tried to latch onto the man's mouth again. Seb's tongue licked his bloody lip and sucked it into his mouth, watching Sherlock watching him with envy and frustration. His teeth sank into the flesh again and a single drop of red rolled down the stubble on his chin before he bent down again and let Sherlock catch his lips. 

Sherlock moaned in response, kissing Seb hungrily and wrapping his legs around the man's waist. He'd promised a fight, but his will wasn't in it. Not with Seb teasing him like _this_. When Seb finally pulled back, Sherlock's breathing was coming in short pants. There was no way the bodyguard had missed the way Sherlock's pulse had sped up beneath his fingers.

Seb's hands scrabbled for Sherlock's trousers, yanking them down his hips and untangling them from his knees. It was an awkward scramble on the slippery floor and they were both covered with blood. It was all up Sebastian's arms and spread across their torsos, the lower half of Sherlock's mouth was crimson, and in their scramble to get rid of the last of their clothing they nearly knocked the rest of the bucket over completely. Sebastian had to extricate himself from Sherlock enough to find Jim's bottle of lube in the sink drawer.

As soon as Sebastian released him, Sherlock was on him like a flash. Slender arms wrapped around the bodyguard and a hungry mouth lapped at his skin, working up towards his neck and the blond stubble gracing his jawline. Sherlock found himself wishing he had the ability to flip them over and pin Seb instead.

Sebastian turned in his arms and pressed a knee between Sherlock's legs, bringing them back down again. He caught the needy look in Sherlock's eye and met it with a predator's grin. They tensed against one another, rubbing skin against skin for the friction, Sebastian sensing Sherlock's desires and fighting them with his own. The lube was applied generously over his fingertips and then Sebastian was rolling them again, trapping Sherlock beneath him once more. 

Sherlock could feel the sticky dampness of blood on the tiles just underneath his head, slowly soaking into his hair. Seb looked like he wouldn't disappoint; his smile was slightly too wide, with too many teeth, gazing down at Sherlock like... prey. Not a person.

Sherlock realized, with no small amount of fascination, that this was the same part of Seb that his victims had seen before they'd been tortured and died. Part of him shivered and wanted to melt under the man's scrutiny. Another part, more basic and concerned with survival, did what it was programmed to do. Sherlock's eyes went wide and he started struggling in earnest, fear lending him a boost of strength in his efforts to get away.

Quickly, Seb's hands gripped tight. He was rocked back and nearly lost his balance when Sherlock twisted to the side, trying to use Sebastian's weight against him. It almost worked. Sherlock's hair was painting the floor in his struggles. Each jerk and twist left a bold brush streak of red behind him and Seb drank in the absolute beauty of it. He was laughing with exhilaration, loving the way everything in Sherlock sought to throw him off, but wasn't quite able to. Without much preamble, he fought one of his hands down between their legs, groping against the writhing body underneath him and plunging one of his slicked fingers inside. 

Sherlock's back arched and he gave a choked-off cry. The sensation this time was far different from even the anxiety and rage-tinged rutting that had occurred between himself and Jim. This was an entirely different flavor of fear, shutting down the higher levels of Sherlock's mind and coiling his frame tight. Seb's laughter was ringing in his ears, coupled with his racing heartbeat. 

Through it all, he was still rock hard. Even while instinctually trying to flee, the part of Sherlock that had asked for this was enjoying the danger.

Either Sebastian could tell, or he simply didn't mind because he didn't slow down. His other hand found Sherlock's cock and, keeping the man pressed down chest to chest, stroked it in time with the thrusts of his finger before adding another, making sure that on some level he drew pleasure out of Sherlock, whether he wanted it or not. Seb chased Sherlock's mouth, back and forth, twisting until he caught him and they locked together. He could almost taste the fear in the other man. Sherlock was no stranger to it, not at a distance, but there were so very few times he'd ever been trapped like this. 

Fear and lust were an odd combination, warring with each other as each tried to win out and take control. Sherlock whimpered into Seb's mouth. He couldn't get away and pleasure, even forced, was slowly eating away at his resistance. His hips thrust against Seb's hand. Another finger breached him and caused a shudder to race up his spine. Seb was being true to his word and taking care not to leave damage, but he also wasn't going slowly enough to ensure things were comfortable.

He pulled out and offered Sherlock some relief, but it wasn't to last. Sebastian sat back and both of his large hands gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling them up to meet him. An extra slathering of lube was added, and then Seb was leaning over him again and breaching his body at the same time. His hands wound down Sherlock's arms and took hold of his wrists. Roughly, Seb jerked them above his head, just to see the look in Sherlock's eyes when his hips snapped forward. 

Sherlock cried out and twisted in Seb's grasp. He didn't feel torn, but a lingering, burning pain told Sherlock his body wasn't going to forgive the abuse anytime soon. Seb's breath washed over his skin and Sherlock found himself gazing back, hypnotized. He still refused to ask Seb to stop, and he ignored the doubts hovering in the back of his mind, whispering that Seb wouldn't stop even if he wanted him to.

The large man waited for a beat and thrust again. There must have been something he liked in Sherlock's eyes because Seb couldn't look away. He caught a rhythm like that, sliding Sherlock's back against the tile floor. Sebastian was not a soft man. His hands were calloused, his hips were sharp, and the muscle that laced over him, contracting and releasing him was like marble. When he kissed Sherlock, he did so softly at first, a strange contrast to everything else he was doing. 

Slowly, Sherlock went pliant. The detective's own body was a study in contrasts, angular bone combined with wiry muscle that was built for dexterity, not strength. Seb's hands would leave bruises once they were finished, particularly where he had pinned Sherlock's wrists. When Seb leaned down and claimed his mouth, Sherlock opened to him without another thought.

Sebastian felt it and he groaned long and low against Sherlock's mouth. The compliance Seb had won was like a narcotic to him. His thrusts deepened and he let go of Sherlock's wrists to wrap his arms around the man's slim torso. He could break Sherlock like that, could practically crush him if he wanted to. Sebastian's grip was tight. He held Sherlock like he wanted the detective to know exactly what he could do. 

Sherlock knew. Had Sebastian not agreed to hold back, he could have broken him many times over in the past few minutes. There was still another danger to get through; Seb had seemed intent, earlier, on asphyxiation him. Sherlock's grey eyes settled on the bodyguard's face as he tried to relax and simply _feel_ , recording the way the rush for survival had left his body tingling and sluggish.

Seb couldn't read his thoughts, but he was no stranger to the signs of a body in distress. Sherlock was on the verge, but there was something off about him, something…calculating, almost detached. Like the way Jim got the very few times he'd had to endure something unpleasant and kept a smile on his face the entire time, or…for an experiment. The little criminal had experimented with sensation on himself multiple times that Sebastian had witnessed, even was participant to when he'd been learning to block out pain with the focus of meditation. Sherlock was not blocking out the pain, but he was definitely focused on it. 

Seb angled his hips deep and thrust sharply. "Does this _fascinate_ you?"

Sherlock grunted in response. "You have to ask?" He would have thought Seb would have known right away. Why else would he have permitted it, _suggested_ it, if not because he wanted to experiment? Because he knew that he would enjoy at least some aspects of the experience? Sherlock licked his lips and his breath caught as Seb's hips jerked forward again with a vicious suddenness. "You don't seem to be enjoying it any less."

Seb's face broke into a grin that told Sherlock he was absolutely right. Even if Sebastian was an experiment, the sensations he was evoking in Sherlock, the fear, the pain, and still the arousal, were all real. That was enough for him. He began to rut into the pliant body beneath him with purpose. 

He did have one last experiment for the detective, something that Seb would enjoy immensely. He dragged Sherlock to the center of the room, putting them out of arms reach of the sink, the shower, the bench, anything his long limbs could catch onto, and with a wicked smile, Seb's hands closed over his throat. 

Sherlock's reaction was immediate and instinctual. He lashed out, battering and scratching at Seb ineffectually while his feet drummed against the floor in a mad scrabble for leverage. His lips parted in a breathless gasp for air. 

Frenzy burned at his reserve of oxygen, enough that Sherlock quickly began to tire. A raw glint of panic began to filter into Sherlock's eyes, sharper than the fear Seb had seen since they'd started. Unable to hit Seb anymore, Sherlock's fingers curled around his hands in one last attempt to pry him off.

Through it all, Sebastian never lost his pace. If anything, it quickened. He could feel the tremble in the long body beneath him and the weakness in Sherlock's hands and still he held tight. He was gasping for breath, panting in Sherlock's face when he repositioned his hands, wrapping one around Sherlock's throat, making sure never to let up on the pressure, while the other slid down to wrap around Sherlock's cock, pumping it in time. 

" _Fuck,_ " Seb said out loud, but the way he looked at Sherlock said quite a lot more.

Sherlock flinched slightly at the touch. His brain was so focused on survival that pleasurable input threw it completely off balance. The last thing one expects, when dying, is sexual pleasure instead of pain.

Sherlock no longer even had the strength to pull against Seb's remaining hand. His fingers stayed curled around the limb, slowly growing looser as a numbness began to eat at him.

"Just a little…just a little more," Sebastian panted, for whose benefit remained uncertain. Seconds went by as he watched Sherlock's eyes, stroked the hardness in his hand, and drove his body down into the pliant man beneath him for his own pleasure. And then, at the very edge of it all, he released his hold on Sherlock's throat and gripped his cock tightly. 

Sherlock gasped for air. There was a sense of vertigo as his lungs filled, then a tingling heat as euphoria washed through him, potent as a chemically-induced high. Everything sensitized, and Sherlock became intensely aware of Seb's thrusts into him and the tight circle around his cock. One more firm stroke and he was coming, shivering beneath Seb all the while. 

The long limbed man was a mess. Completely undone with sensation, black hair matted to his forehead and standing up behind him, sweat dripping down his temples, and the color rushing out of his cheeks to make his face ghastly pale for a moment, he was a work of art. Sebastian was gasping, bearing into him like he wanted to rip Sherlock apart and couldn't tear his eyes away. He was coming himself moments later, thrusting violently until he stilled and bent over the wrecked man. 

Sherlock's body warred with itself, afterglow clashing with painful prickling as life returned to his limbs. He felt heavy and bruised, and not just around the neck. Seb had held back, but he'd still taken a beating. Sherlock watched him come apart, eyes locked until Seb was spent. It took a few moments for the detective to get his arms to work, but they finally did, lifting away from a floor sticky with dried blood and weakly wrapping around Seb's chest.

It gave the larger man pause. He looked dazed for a moment, still coming down and unused to a partner pulling him in after a session like that. When Seb did regain himself, he eased into Sherlock's touch, relaxing against the dark haired detective and holding him up at the same time. Seb must have felt how boneless Sherlock was. Strong arms wrapped around him in return and warm breath ruffled his hair where it wasn't heavy with sweat and caked blood. After a few minutes resting like that, Sebastian lifted Sherlock from the floor, steadying him against his side, and drew him into the shower. 

Sherlock stumbled and leaned heavily against Seb as they moved. His breathing and heartbeat had slowed, but his body was still slow to respond and didn't seem to want to take his own weight. Fatigue had settled in and all he really wanted to do was sleep, if only for a little while. Sebastian seemed intent on cleaning them up before anything else, however. Spray began issuing from the showerhead and the sensation of water pattering against his skin was almost too much.

Sherlock's eyes were half open, watching Seb as he moved him wherever he wanted. Strong hands washed down his pale back, sending the blood down the drain and a tremble through Sherlock, but Sebastian held him with ease. Sherlock could hold onto him, but, weak as he was, Seb had to hold Sherlock up to keep him from sinking to the floor. The larger man pressed him against the wall to run his hands through Sherlock's hair. Rivulets of washed out red streamed down their skin until the last of the blood was washed away. 

Sherlock regarded him in silence for a long moment. Seb had nearly finished carding fingers through his curls when Sherlock spoke, voice reduced to a hoarse rasp. "You're wondering if I'm regret this." Grey eyes scanned Seb intently. "If I regret it enough to never permit you to have this again."

Seb stopped. His bright blue eyes met Sherlock's. His hands were still clasped in dark hair, holding Sherlock's head gently. This was probably the most gentle Sebastian had ever been with him. And that was probably no coincidence. "You read me well, detective."

"You're handling me like I'm glass," Sherlock pointed out. Another tense moment passed, both men staring at one another. Sherlock wasn't certain he could convey his feelings on the matter in a way the bodyguard would understand. "Have you ever done this before and had your partner survive?"

Sebastian laughed. There was a raw edge to it, like he found the question funny but was neither proud nor guilty of the answer. "No."

Sherlock had surely only survived because Jim loomed in the background. He was still desperate to obey the man's will. But if Sebastian ever did have Jim, unfettered and in this way, it was questionable whether even he would survive. 

Sherlock nodded; he'd thought as much. "It wasn't unenjoyable, and I survived. I also experienced a piece of you that Jim hasn't. Not directly." He tilted his head and watched Seb curiously. "I may be open to trying it again in the future. Provided, of course, that there are similar restrictions."

Sebastian searched his face like he was waiting for a catch. When finally he saw that one wasn't there, the wariness in his expression diminished infinitesimally. A small smile graced his features, pulling at the scars on his face and making him look like something that was too pleased to be on a battlefield and yet did not quite belong anywhere else. 

Seb shut off the water and propped Sherlock back in his arms to take his weight. "Then let's get you healed up."

Sherlock nodded and leaned heavily against the scarred man. Bruise marks were beginning to surface around his wrists, with a matching ring undoubtedly appearing on his neck. Merely walking caused parts of his body to voice their complaints, even through the lingering muddle of endorphins and adrenaline. Sebastian must have been rougher than he'd thought.

"Get me back up to my room." It was nearly the time that withdrawal would start hitting him, anyway. The chemicals could finally be put to their original intended medical purpose - soothing physical pain.

Sebastian nodded and passed the towel over him quickly, then himself. The blond snagged his trousers on the way. 

Sherlock was a heavy weight against his side as they made their way out of Jim's bathroom and back up the stairs. A bloody mess was left behind them, splashed all across the tile floor. Spatters of it had gotten onto the walls, the sink, everywhere, reminiscent of one of Seb's torture scenes. 

It hurt to move, and likely would ache for awhile, but Sherlock wasn't feeling regretful about what had happened. A curiosity had been satisfied in a way that would normally not have been possible, at least without incurring permanent damage or death, and there had been a unique sort of bonding with Sebastian. It would never measure up to the hold Jim had on him, but it was something Jim didn't have, because Jim would never allow Sebastian that level of power over him.

They made it through the doorway. Sherlock flinched as he was lowered to a sitting position at the edge of the bed. "My kit is in the top drawer of the dresser."

Sebastian went to get it without complaint. As a man of indulgence himself, this wasn't something he held against Sherlock. The wood made a soft creak when he open it to reveal the small box inside. Sebastian's hands made it seem even tinier than it was. 

He went to sit next to Sherlock, sinking the bed with his weight and tipping the detective into him while he opened the lid and held it out for Sherlock to take. 

Sherlock's hands moved with the mindless precision of habit. He barely had to glance at the contents in order to select the right vial and start prepping the equipment. The small ritual, in fact, had been one of the things he'd missed terribly when he'd given such things up before. Nicotine patches had been a poor, poor substitute for what he'd been used to, but at least they gave him _something_. Nothing had replaced the small tools, the ritual. He'd taken to breaking pencils and learning origami just to have something to occupy his hands.

"Did Jim tell you when he was coming back?"

"No." Sebastian leaned back against the bed and sank into it. They both knew it wouldn't be long though. Jim had been out for a while on a job that had required mostly location scouting. When Jim Moriarty wanted someone to die, he made sure to do it in such a precise way as to know where the man would be standing, to the centimeter, and where he would be falling, who would be able to see it and at what angle, in what certain time of daylight, at what minute of the hour, and in what way the splash patterns would fly. This job was going to be a work of art, as most of his tended to be. 

Sebastian watched Sherlock work. He liked it, seeing the needle sink into the pale skin. Watching Sherlock's face contort with pleasure. 

Though he'd allowed himself to fall into addiction once again, Sherlock was never careless about it. Even when he'd been stuck on the streets, he'd always paid sharp attention to hygiene and safety. Clean cotton was pressed against his skin, the used needle removed and set aside in a smaller box inside his kit. Already, the pain was beginning to dull and recede as the edges of his mind became hazy.

And still, Seb was watching him. "You didn't get enough of a show, yet?"

When Seb smiled, his face looked like it was made for it. In spite of the scars, he was all perfect teeth, crinkled eyes, and dimpled laugh lines. "You've got _me_ addicted now," he warned. He hadn't meant it to be a warning, just a statement, but the reality of the situation was that's what it was. Being with Sebastian like that was dangerous. 

Outwardly, Sherlock was relaxed. A symptom of the drug racing through his veins. The slack, almost euphoric look to his face and the heaviness to his eyes was a sharp contrast to the normal Sherlock, and it was indeed fascinating to watch. 

Sebastian's words prompted a sharp look from Sherlock. He was surprised to see that the blond actually meant it. A smile touched the corners of Sherlock's mouth. Between Jim, Sebastian, and himself, they were hopelessly entangled. "Have a care with your addictions. Things break easily."

Moments later they both heard the downstairs door click open, followed by Jim's voice. He was on the phone. Working out details of the next job, it sounded like. He would have known they were there, but there was no sign Jim was going to call for them as his footsteps stopped at the door and then wove through the apartment, heading in a meandering line for his rooms. 

Sebastian's head turned to follow the sound, but he didn't try to get up. One of his large hands found Sherlock's knee and stroked up his thigh and then back down, doing it over and over until Jim's voice suddenly screeched through the high ceilings of the apartment. 

" _What the FUCK did you do to my bathroom!_ "

Sherlock started laughing, unable to help himself. The sound was hoarse as it issued from his abused throat. He couldn't seem to stop. Clear as a photograph in his mind's eye, he could see the changes in Jim's expression, from the moment he entered the doorway to the moment when he deduced precisely what had occurred in the tiled room. Angry footsteps drew closer as Jim climbed the stairs, and it only made everything even more hilarious. Sherlock set the box aside on the bedspread before his shaking could knock it to the floor and damage its fragile contents.

Jim flew through the doorway like a little demon, whirling on the both of them. 

Sherlock's laughter hadn't helped Sebastian keep a straight face. He managed to restrain himself with a greater fear of Jim's wrath and far fewer narcotics in his system, but Jim saw right through him. Black eyes darted from Sherlock to Sebastian and then Jim was moving again, jumping up on the bed, grabbing hold of the back of Seb's collar, and dragging him off. 

" _You_ are going to _scrub that thing clean_ ," Jim growled, "Every tile, every corner, every _crevice. Do you hear me?_ I don't want to see you until it's done." He threw the man, as much as anyone could throw Sebastian, toward the door. Seb stumbled, allowing himself to be moved, but he didn't go down as Jim had probably been hoping. " _Now!_ " Jim roared, and, with one last haughty grin at Sherlock from the bodyguard, Seb disappeared. 

Sherlock had slumped to the mattress once his support was removed. Even prone on the bed, one arm curled around his stomach, he'd watched the exchange with a grin and quiet giggles. There was something endearing about Jim when he was angry. Watching Jim's short frame bully Seb's larger, bulkier one right out the door had only added another dash of humor to the situation.

"You didn't like the new paint?" Sherlock finally asked.

"No, how could you tell?" Jim deadpanned. He sat next to Sherlock anyway, scooting Sherlock's long legs over to take the spot Seb had vacated, but when he looked at the detective, he did so fondly. His fingers trailed up the dip in Sherlock's stomach, then his bare torso, pausing to trace around the bruises on his wrist and then shifting closer to touch the ones at his throat. 

"Sebastian thought to bring me a surprise, and we got a little carried away." Sherlock flinched slightly as cool fingertips touched sensitive, heated skin. His neck was still sore, even with the benefit of painkillers. Sherlock's features were more unguarded under the influence of the substances tainting his blood. One of his hands reached up to stroke the side of Jim's face. "Work went well, I take it."

"Mmhmmm…" Jim purred. His eyes slid shut and his head bent into Sherlock's hand. Jim love it when Sherlock touched him unexpectedly. He was always breaching Sherlock's personal space, always had been from the moment they met with guards lowered and Sherlock had still been the consulting detective. Now, Sherlock was doing it back and Jim soaked it up. "I've worked it all out. He'll die beautifully." Their next target was set not only to be shot and killed in the middle of Gramercy Park, his blood would leave a mural on the walk. 

"Mmm. Speaking of dying beautifully, I've finished the compounds you requested for the poisoning job. They're on the work table, whenever we decide to move forward."

_We_. It truly had become a partnership in the last few weeks. Sherlock didn't need persuading anymore; he'd taken a keen interest in Jim's work, often offering his own suggestions and participating as he could. Jim had taken care to make the work stimulating, and Sherlock was _enjoying_ it all. Not just the work itself, but Jim's pleased reactions once they'd completed a job together.

They also worked a _lot_. Jim always had, and fortunately that had been one of the key elements Sherlock needed to be kept occupied. Taking on multiple jobs at once was a process they fell into quickly and easily after the first few Jim had set up for Sherlock. Now, Sherlock was often setting them up for him after a new client was acquired. 

When they were working, Jim had a boundless love for Sherlock's mind. Sitting down with the same goal, they could speak to one another with a kind of rhythm and rapidity that would fly over the heads of anyone, usually Seb, trying to listen. One would take a leap of logic and the other would follow seamlessly, over and over, and these sessions became like fuel, sharpening their senses and heightening their excitement. Sherlock would often find Jim in a state of near uncontrollable lust afterward, and they would have to sate it before any of the real work could continue. 

"I also obtained the needed information from-" Sherlock blinked, unable to recall the woman's name. "...the executive assistant for the technology theft job. I typed everything up into an encrypted document."

Sherlock knew he should have been able to remember the woman's name, even if the exchange had been brief. He'd never had this difficulty remembering the names of witnesses on cases before. Data had always remained until the case had been finished and he could safely delete it.

Jim caught the pause. He glanced to Sherlock's face and there was a quiet moment between them. Sherlock could see the question running through his mind. Jim had known what he'd heard, but because if was Sherlock, he did the briefest double take. Sherlock looked just as quizzical over the slip, from the way his mouth was downturned and his eyes were lowered, searching internally. Jim glanced to the box on the bed and then leaned over Sherlock to stroke his hair back from his face. "You did that just now, didn't you?" Jim asked, an obvious question, but one layered with a different message underneath, expressing his hope that the fuzziness was only temporary with Sherlock still riding the first high of the hit. 

"Just before you arrived home. Sebastian was... overly enthusiastic during our experiment, more than what you can see. He brought me upstairs at my request so I could dull the worst of it." Sherlock's eyes flickered closed as Jim continued stroking. Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Shame and mortification hit him. Jim had seen him like this before, but it felt... different. "And before you ask, yes, the experiment was also at my request."

Slowly, Jim unfastened his suit jacket and shrugged out of it, laying it down on the bed beside them before he pulled his legs up and laid down himself behind Sherlock. He knew what Sherlock meant of course. He knew Seb's tastes. He would also know that Sebastian had never let anyone live through it before. His hands drifted lightly up Sherlock's chest. There were bruises that he could see around the neck, arms, and wrists especially, here and there across his torso from slamming into something, but as Sherlock had found his trousers, Jim could not see any more than that. "How bad is it?" he asked against Sherlock's ear. 

Sherlock knew Sebastian was on thin ice, depending on what he answered. "Not as bad as you might think, given what he told me about his previous... partners." Victims. "I specified safety parameters and damage limits. Sebastian was quite aware of what would happen to him if he didn't respect them. I'm merely bruised, internally and externally."

Sherlock opened his eyes again to watch Jim as he took stock of Sherlock's injuries. "Seb was more concerned that I'd never permit him another opportunity than he was that you'd punish him for this."

Jim's eyes turned to his and raised one slim eyebrow. That was new, then. "It's not very often he gets a willing partner who also knows full well of his history," Jim mused. Or perhaps the sniper was really beginning to like Sherlock. The latter seemed more likely with every passing day. Jim hummed and brushed his nose into Sherlock's curls. If that were true, it would still work to his benefit. All of theirs, in fact. "I'll bottle your compound. We'll be able to use it tonight." Jim sat up again, deciding that Sebastian's daring with Sherlock wasn't worth reprimand. Yet. 

"Use the gloves in the cabinet on the left." The last thing Sherlock wanted was for residue to end up somewhere else in the flat and poison one them by accident. 

Jim's profile was striking when he straightened up. It had always been so, but Sherlock had found that opiates had a tendency to make him focus on the sensory, particularly the tactile, and to loosen his tongue. He stroked a hand down Jim's side and relished the feel of rich fabric that barely hid the slim form underneath. 

The smaller man had been about to move, but stopped at Sherlock's touch. This, Jim had noticed before. Had highly taken advantage of it, even. His lips curled into a small smirk. "I'll be back." 

Jim bent and pressed a very slow, very languid kiss to Sherlock's mouth, drawing out the soft sensation of the brush of their lips, the press of his jaw, the nip of his teeth, before he pulled away and turned for the workroom. 

Sherlock sighed as Jim left the room. The sensations had lingered even after Jim had pulled away. He stared up at the white ceiling, blissfully numb while he listened to quiet sounds from the workroom. The churning waters of his mind had turned into an unnaturally still pool, blank and reflective. Fatigue pulled at Sherlock, and he slipped into unconsciousness while picturing Jim in his laboratory, his hands full of elegant vials of poison.

It wasn't long before sensation returned, starting with long strokes up his legs. The shifting of the bed came next, followed by hands on his chest, shifting him, and the warmth of a body pressing against his side. Jim's voice breathed softly next to his ear. "What do you dream of, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, just enjoying the feel of Jim's body next to him. "You," he admitted. "London. New York is interesting, but it isn't home." Even if they found other ex-pats and had met with them every once in awhile, America had a different culture. There was more to it than the different accents, food, and climate.

It occurred to Sherlock that, perhaps, Jim wouldn't have noticed such things. Jim might not have nostalgia for home. From what Sherlock could tell, Jim had spent most of his life on the move due to his work. Home was an endless stream of flats in a variety of countries, not a singular location.

"You miss it," Jim said quietly. It was a statement of curiosity, not an accusation and not made in disappointment. Sherlock was probably right about his lack of loyalties to any one place. "We'll go back. In time." Sherlock knew the reasons Jim wouldn't return. Even if John's presence hadn't been looming there, Mycroft and his all-seeing eyes were. If those two factors hadn't remained, Jim would have likely considered it. 

"I know. Understand, while you are used to constant movement, I am not. I've traveled, for business and for pleasure, but I've spent the vast majority of my life in Britain. After the novelty wears off, being in another country for a prolonged period of time begins to feel odd. You want to visit familiar places and do familiar things, be in the environment you remember, and you cannot." 

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a crooked smile. "It doesn't matter that I couldn't stand people on the whole, even hearing familiar accents would be a comfort."

Jim lifted his head and rested it on Sherlock's chest. Without feeling that way himself, he could see the homesickness in Sherlock, read it in him like he were a book. He closed his eyes and pulled the blanket up around them, cocooning Sherlock in sensation and warmth. It was a small distraction at best. Jim was considering it, Sherlock could see the wheels turning in his head. Even if it were just for a day, they would perhaps be able to sneak back. "In time." 

Sherlock wondered where Jim had spent most of his time in the course of his nomadic lifestyle. He slipped, every now and again, into an unmistakable Irish lilt that complimented his physical appearance, but it was uncertain how long he'd lived there. Jim didn't seem open to ever talking about the early years of his life.

Sherlock turned and wrapped himself around the smaller man. "Tell me something. A story. Anything."

"Well, once upon a time, in a land far, far away…." Jim sang softly. He stopped at Sherlock's pointed glance. "I wanted to tell your story, remember?" Jim smiled with Richard's eyes before he broke the illusion. Yes, it had been meticulously designed to get Sherlock's attention, but Jim had enjoyed parts of it. He was a natural storyteller, but his storytelling wasn't a social outlet. It was a necessity. Jim used it to fashion disguises like shields and to wield fiction like weapons. It was secretive, insidious, spontaneous, and defensive. He would never be a real actor on a stage unless he were playing an actor on stage. He would likely never write a book to be published, though Sherlock had caught him several times typing pages and pages of text into his laptop. "What would you like to hear?"

"What I'd _like_ to hear isn't what you're willing to tell me." Sherlock raised an eyebrow; they'd been over this before. "But I'll settle for something else. When you decided to take an interest again. Or how you broke Sebastian out of prison and reshaped him." _That_ would be interesting, as Sherlock was willing to bet that Seb had been changed dramatically since Jim got his hands on him. "Or, perhaps, a story about when you first caught on to the idea of anonymous networking."

Jim's face slid into a smile in spite of what Sherlock had really wanted. "Sebastian can tell you what happened to him," he mused, shifting and getting comfortable in Sherlock's arms. "And when he does, I can fill in the blanks. His telling of it will be much more…impactful, than mine. You can _see_ the devotion in his eyes, even when he hides it." Jim's smile was predatory, and he was proud of what he'd done to the the ex colonel. To him, Sebastian was like a particularly masterful painting. "Anonymous networking should be obvious." Jim gave a little shrug of the shoulder. "Should be. People like to go on about the need for privacy and protection of the people from their governments, the anonymity of leakers inspired by Daniel Ellsberg and his Pentagon papers, and that's all well and good, I need them to say it as loud as they can to keep these networks running, but _really_ the underground market trumps it all. We grew up in the dawn of this age, Sherlock. Computer cryptography, unbreakable systems, were taking their first major leaps when we came into the world. It was only natural that I learned to manipulate it myself and exploit it. I needed two things really, a limitless collection of potential clients, and well…as much of the 'you' from back then as I could have with the real you off and grown and wandering aimlessly through the back alleys of London in a narcotic stupor. People will share anything through a web of anonymity. Drugs, weapons, laundered money, other _illicit_ materials," Jim gave him a pointed look. "I used that very network to find the boy who was set to play you on television. You don't realize how much you effected me when you followed Powers' case. You grew up and moved on, and I didn't. I dare say you became a…fixation for me. One that inspired all sorts of things."

"I'm beginning to realize it," Sherlock countered quietly. "I told you that I understood, now, why you couldn't leave me alone when you learned that I was alive and well and engaged in detective work. You even went to the trouble to try to find a doppelganger to satisfy yourself." 

Sherlock paused, taking a moment to study Jim's face. "Why didn't you contact me, when I was younger? Before I got put through the family gauntlet and everything went to hell. You had a fixation, but I couldn't return it. I didn't even know you existed."

Jim closed his eyes and a sharp edge of pain came over him. "I waited too long. You were as much a mystery to me then as I was to you until I searched you out. I followed you one day, not long after you'd been heckling the investigators, and discovered your brother, and your mother. I wasn't sure if I wanted to play with you or against you then. It was so unexpected to find another boy with a mind like yours, but, even then, you were on the other side. At the time, it was novel, a newly discovered fascination. Even I didn't realize how much you'd effected me until it was already too late. Your family swept you away and I chose not to care at the time. Your goal in catching me was opposite to my own in escaping, after all. And then I got older," Jim sighed, "and no one ever quite lived up to that one brilliant boy I'd followed for weeks while he searched for me. I found other brilliant children, searched them out unconsciously at first, but 'brilliance' is qualified as so many, many things. None of them were _cunning_. But some at the very least looked like you, which I admit, became a certain weakness of mine. Or, perhaps it was the other way around, and you fell within the range of my attraction so perfectly from the very beginning and I was simply too stubborn to let you go." 

A smile crept across Sherlock's face. He couldn't help but be flattered. His ego was one of his weaknesses. "A shame you waited so long. I likely would have ended up with the same obsession, had I known you existed back then. Just seeing that there was another option to choose would have made a world of difference." 

Sherlock carded a hand through Jim's hair. It was slightly stiff with product, as it usually was, but he always enjoyed the feel of the dark strands between his fingers. Even more, he enjoyed the way his touch eased subtle lines of tension in Jim. The fact that the other man was so much smaller was no little source of fascination for him. "What happened with the other children?"

"I grew bored quickly," Jim sighed. "But as time passed, it was the closest I could come to what I had felt for you. They carried your beauty, if not your mind. And I was so very good at manipulating my way into peoples' lives when I wanted to be. Beyond that, no one had ever held much interest for me. I always managed to disappear after." 

"Mmm." Which still left some questions unanswered; Sherlock didn't know whether Jim had merely abandoned his companions after he'd tired of them, or disposed of them before he disappeared. With Jim, it could have been either. 

"What would you have done, if you'd gotten me here but I never warmed up to you? You took risks at the beginning, knowing that your actions might cause me to hate you and that my grudges might not dissipate."

Jim frowned. After some time, he drew a short breath. "I think we both know the answer to that question." Sherlock, dead in a ditch in some foreign country after weeks, months, possibly even years of Jim's efforts. "But don't imagine it so simply. _I knew you, Sherlock._ I knew you would not see my offer so very horribly when you really had to consider what you wanted. If, after all that, you still refused, well…." Jim swallowed and his eyes fell to the pale skin of Sherlock's shoulder. "I'd have made sure we'd still go out with a bang." Black eyes darted up to meet grey. "Neither of us would deserve anything less. The rest of the world can rot."

Sherlock nodded; it was much as he suspected. Jim didn't take kindly to losing, and the denial of his hoped-for companionship would have rendered the world unbearable. He wouldn't have been satisfied with life as Sherlock had lived it before he fell.

"You know," he began, "my brother would have liked you. Before he turned into someone else." Dark strands of hair slipped through Sherlock's fingers again. "You are... very alike, in some ways, to how he used to be." And that was a bizarre train of thought indeed. Sherlock wasn't certain he was entirely comfortable with the way his mind had turned his attention to the parallels between the companionship he'd once shared with his brother and his relationship with his current partner.

Jim turned up a curious eyebrow at him before stopping to consider. "Your brother is…manipulative, ruthless. He works in many of the same areas I do. He has certain qualities that, yes, I searched out in you. But it ends there. If you remember him differently, then I never saw the Mycroft you knew. You were the one that caught my attention." 

Sherlock blinked and paled as a thought struck him through the self-introspection. "...he used to share traits with Sebastian," he murmured, uncertain whether he should be horrified that, in a way, he'd ended up with two men that incorporated different aspects of his brother's personality. Or rather, his personality as it had been when they had been close. Sherlock's mouth opened, closed. "...I didn't see it, before."

Jim snorted back chuckles. Sherlock's little dilemma was written across his face. Jim leaned up to press against Sherlock's mouth, speaking as their lips moved together. "Does that mean you're practically fucking your brother?" Jim's voice was soft, but tainted with giggles. "Too bad, I doubt we'd be able to convince him to join us." 

"That's not funny." Sherlock's gaze slid sideways. Jim's amusement did little to soothe the conflicted feelings the realization had brought to the surface. "And no, I don't believe anyone would be able to put him back to the way he used to be, which would be requisite for him to take interest in changing sides." Jim's giggles tickled against his skin, and Sherlock ducked his head, feeling oddly self-conscious.

Jim's fingers were back, sliding along his skin. The laughter quieted down. "I know you miss them," Jim whispered. He did not care how Sherlock did or did not feel about his brother, so long as that brother was not in Jim's way. "Give it time. You have a new family now." Jim shifted his legs in between Sherlock's and wrapped his arms around the man's middle, getting as close as he possibly could.

Sherlock flinched as Jim pressed up against flesh still tender from recent abuse, but he returned the embrace. He didn't want Jim to take the reaction as rejection and move away. The heat and weight of him was a comfort. "It must seem pathetic to you. I don't let many people close, but when I do, bonds form. I can't cut them away so easily." 

"There is plenty more in the world to be worthy of your attention than people. Even those few. Everyone dies, everyone cuts ties someday. It's just the nature of things. I should have found you sooner." Jim smiled against the top of Sherlock's shoulder. "I can give you an ideal no one else can."

"I know." Sherlock sighed. "There's a reason I rarely let people close. Normally I keep this in mind well enough to keep them away and detached, unable to cause distraction or harm. Every once in a while, someone causes me to slip. Or the solitude becomes too much, even for me." Sherlock gave a short, quiet bark of a laugh. "Does genius mean anything when there's no one there to witness it?"

"We have all the world to see what we've done." Sherlock could feel Jim's heart beating against his side as Jim could surely feel Sherlock's. Besides their two heartbeats and quiet words, there was nothing but silence left in the room. "We can do anything now, _absolutely anything_ , and the world will watch. In fascination, in horror, in wonder, whatever we choose. I'd like to overthrow a government next. Perhaps Mali." Soft lashes fluttered against Sherlock's cheek. 

"That would be interesting. And a far larger game board than I'm used to." Sherlock's attention was no longer entirely on the conversation, the majority of his focus having been transferred to Jim. Jim, tucked close around him, his hands on his sides. Jim's warm breath on his neck and in his ear. Black eyes that turned up to meet him when he looked. Sherlock spent a moment just admiring the curve of Jim's mouth before he leaned down to claim it.

Everything in Jim relaxed into it. Sherlock was hard and yielding in turns as he was in personality and Jim could finally find the rhythm to it. Sherlock may have found bonds with people over time, some more easily than others, but Jim couldn't deny that he'd sought out a bond with Sherlock. For different reasons than Sherlock had formed his, but a bond nevertheless. Jim pressed firmly against him, taking control for a moment before Sherlock pressed back. To Jim, bonds were worthless if they weren't ideal, and Sherlock was definitely an ideal.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. The mixture of pleasure and pain sent a trickle of electricity up his spine, giving him a flashback to earlier that day - Sebastian and blood-spattered tile. Jim's mouth was insistent against his own until he broke away. "I thought you were keen on putting those poisons to use tonight."

"You've gone and distracted me," Jim teased in a whisper. "I know you're sore, but would you should come along anyway. You'll get a decent meal out of it and I'll get to watch. I do love to watch." Jim's hand slid along Sherlock's bruised hip, the light pressure sending tingles through the nerves, not sharp enough to be real pain.

Sherlock glanced down. "I'm beginning to regret allowing Sebastian to be quite so rough." Jim's interest was an addiction all in itself, and difficult to resist. "And you know by now, I should think, that all you have to do to get me to accompany you is ask. Decent food is appreciated, but unimportant next to other considerations."

"You'll want to see your handiwork in action at the _very least_. Come on then." Jim leaned over Sherlock with his weight on one arm, smiling at him devilishly. "We can finish this later." And with that, Jim disappeared. Rolling from the bed, he was out the door in seconds. 

Raised voices soon came from downstairs. Apparently Sebastian hadn't been cleaning either fast enough or well enough for Jim's liking. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and levered himself upright. It took him considerably longer than usual to get to his feet and get ready. His body didn't quite want to cooperate. Minutes past as he fumbled into a shirt and jacket, stopping in the bathroom to make certain he looked presentable.

His reflection was worrying. Sherlock had always been pale, but his skin looked slightly off-color, with a hint of shadows about his eyes. Or perhaps it was merely his imagination, taking his vague feelings of unease and projecting them outward. Sherlock shook his head and tamed his curls back into place. 

He paused by his bedside, gaze caught by the box still at the foot of the bed. After a brief internal debate, he pocketed a few items and went to join the other men downstairs.

Sebastian was dressed and doing his tie in the reflection of one of the marble pillars, even though there was a high mirror just around the corner. Fortunately for him, he wouldn't be dining with them, or staying for an extended period of time. His job was to get in and get out and let Jim and Sherlock enjoy the show. Rustling and a few curses came from Jim's doorway. 

"Don't think the bathroom will ever be as clean again, but it was worth it," Seb said with a grin. His eyes had a bit of a leer whenever he looked at Sherlock now. 

Sherlock shivered and, in spite of himself, his mind overlaid a second pair of pale eyes over the first, tinging blond hair with reddish tones. "Yes, it was." Although the aftermath was proving to be brutal in unexpected ways. "I don't expect Jim sees it the same way, however. You might want to consider making some reconciliatory gestures."

Seb sighed and glanced toward the door. "Easier said than done." Reconciliatory gestures to James Moriarty delivered by anyone but Sherlock, were hard to make. Jim either expected them as part of the job, or rejected them as trite overtures. 

When the devil returned, he was looking as pristine as ever. In a white suit, Jim could make heads turn he became so striking. His dark eyes glanced to Sebastian and without needing to say more, the blond brushed a weight in his pocket that clacked, glass on glass. He had the compound, and they were ready. Jim nodded, and made for the elevator.

Sherlock fell in beside Jim, a tall shadow contrasted against Jim's petite, bright form. The slight hesitance to his step barely diminished the striking presence they made together. "You never told me who this was for. Not that it matters, but I'd like to know where we're going to be spending a portion of the evening."

Jim's smirk widened as they stepped in, Seb behind them, and descended. "Well, do you remember I mentioned Mali? Well, our target just so happens to be one of the foremost leaders in the French military in control of the region, along with Malian forces. There are too many factions fighting for power, so…I intend to chop off the heads of each and offer the region to the highest bidder in the aftermath. As, by that point, I will be the only one who knows what the fuck is going on."

"And we can all take a luxurious holiday in Timbuktu." Seb deadpanned. His sense of humor was a bit dry in regards to Jim.

"You may get quite a bidding war, considering Mali is the third largest gold producer on the continent and, potentially, thousands of tons of unmined uranium deposits. Critical natural materials for investors and would-be atomic countries alike." The doors opened, letting them out onto the ground floor, and they made their way towards the parking garage. "I hope you show some discernment in who you allow to purchase it. There are some people who should never be allowed to play at being an atomic power."

"Like myself?" Jim flashed him a smile as they went to the kerb and hailed their car. Seb moved on down the sidewalk to catch a cap. "Once I allow someone in, I need to be sure they can be taken down again, yes. The trick is that they cannot realize this until it's much too late." They quieted as they climbed in the car. Jim employed men who could be trusted for the most part, but he was still very careful about keeping vital information from their ears. "Eleven Madison Park," Jim called through the window before it closed and he and Sherlock were in their own little world again.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. They'd been living in New York long enough for him to have gained a feel for the city's layout, and while Jim often had expensive tastes, this promised to be a dinner to remember. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, given who we'll be meeting. Should I even ask what the cost per plate is going to be?"

"You should know me by now, love," Jim chided. "Roughly $200 is the starting point. We'll be watching from a distance, no need to impress, but I do have a craving for roasted duck…." Jim pursed his lips and slipped his hand up Sherlock's thigh. "You're going to turn more heads than me with that lovely necklace you're wearing," he said, eying the slim man's throat. 

Colour suffused Sherlock's cheeks. He'd had bruises before from grappling with criminals who'd caught him off guard. It had never struck him before as a thing to be embarrassed about, other than a vain self-consciousness about how such accessories would look next to the rest of his clothing. Now, he knew that the diners and wait staff would assume, correctly, that the marks were sexual. And lacking skills in deduction and observation, they would assume, incorrectly, that Jim would have been the cause of them. "Always ready for a display of power, particularly when it means having me on your arm."

Jim threw his head back and laughed. "Well you can't exactly blame me, now can you?" Jim trailed his fingers over his own bare neck, the creamy skin unmarked. "I'm quite the opportunist." Even knowing he wasn't the one to put them there, his black eyes were haunting as he admired the marks contrasted with the color in Sherlock's face. He leaned in to nip at Sherlock's mouth, indulging in a heated kiss before they were turning a corner and slowing toward the sidewalk. 

No one at a place like this would raise a fuss over the marks. Particularly so when they were on a man, instead of a woman. Sherlock had spent enough time in high society to know the choices people made in that sort of environment - polite, selective blindness and deafness towards evidence of the unpleasant. Abuse, excess, and white collar crime all passed without comment. No one wanted to rock the boat and cause trouble for themselves.

Still, it wasn't Sherlock's preferred type of attention. "I hope you enjoy it well enough for the both of us. I don't quite care to take the position of battered trophy."

Jim leaned in again to whisper as they pulled to a stop. "If you promise to make it up to me later, I'll let you give me a matching set before we go in." He winked and their door was opening and suddenly Jim was back in professional mode, turning and sliding out elegantly. 

Sherlock's gaze was sharp on Jim as he followed him out. The smaller man's words had sent a spark of desire through him. It was more than simply lust; it was about evening the playing field, having a brief span of power over a man who allowed no one else such an opportunity. Sherlock stepped closer and leaned down as they walked. "You have a deal."

Jim smirked and kept walking, right past the front and down the side of the building. It loomed over them like a giant, white monument, leaving no alleys to duck into. Instead, they found a parking garage and, without a guard on duty, Jim picked the lock, sending the door up, and they slipped inside. Fortunately, it was deserted. Jim began shrugging out of his coat with the smile plastered back on his face. 

Hunger consumed Sherlock. He didn't feel residual pain as he moved. Jim had barely gotten his coat off before hands forcefully shoved him back against the nearest wall. Sherlock followed close behind, pinning Jim with his own body and slipping a leg between Jim's knees. Pale, tapered fingers caught the smaller man's jaw and tilted his head up until their gazes locked.

"I suppose I should ensure I get my full worth out of the bargain, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock's hands shifted, cupping Jim's face for a moment before they slid down to his neck.

Jim groaned and pushed his hips against Sherlock's thigh, seeking and getting the friction of their closeness. It brought a heated flush to his own cheeks. "I suppose you should," Jim breathed back, tilting his head back for Sherlock and grinding his hips down whenever Sherlock shifted his leg forward to keep Jim in place against the wall. Black eyes darted for the surveillance cameras, not completely satisfied until Jim found them. 

Sherlock's mouth curled into a grin. He leaned down to kiss Jim gently, a marked contrast to the tightening of his hands. Pressure brought a lovely flush to Jim's cheeks. Sherlock's tongue flicked out and opened Jim's mouth, claiming and trying to steal his breath in another way. Jim's pulse was wild beneath his palms.

Slim fingers fisted in Sherlock's hair, pulling tightly but not pushing him away. In spite of everything, perhaps in defiance of everything, Jim met the kiss forcefully. It was a battle with a set outcome, but still he was insistent on playing it out. His pulse beat strong against Sherlock's palms. The veins in his neck thickened with trapped blood, turning his skin red and shortening his breath until he couldn't manage the kiss anymore. 

Sherlock squeezed as hard as he dared, relishing the way Jim's heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird. A few more seconds and he released Jim's neck, sliding his arms around the criminal to support him instead. Fingers tightened in his hair as Jim coughed and filled his lungs again. A glance showed reddened skin was already beginning to darken. "You bruise easier than I thought."

It took Jim a few minutes to regain his breath and ability to speak. "You're stronger than you thought," he rasped. 

It would take a few hours for the welts to turn purple, but they were bright red right away. It didn't matter if the patrons of Eleven Madison Park saw how recent they were, only that they were there. Jim loosened his jaw and wrapped a hand around his own throat to feel the damage. If it stung, he didn't show it. His eyes darted back up to Sherlock from where he was slumped against the wall. He drew the taller man down by the hair for one more kiss. 

Sherlock's arms tightened possessively around Jim. It didn't matter what price he'd have to pay later that night. Seeing Jim wearing his marks would be worth it. Sebastian might dream of having Jim, but Jim _was_ his, as much as he could be anyone's. "Perhaps that's something to test on another night. Sometime when we don't have other places to be."

Jim pushed away from the wall, moving Sherlock with him. He rolled his head, presumably relieving the residual ache, but making a nice little show of it for Sherlock in the process before he donned his jacket again and straightened the cuffs. When Jim was all smoothed out and back in order, they were off again, slipping back out the garage door and onto the street. Night was just beginning to fall and, just as magnificently as usual, the city was lighting up with it. Jim's eyes caught the sun when he looked at Sherlock and grinned, unable to stop himself. 

"You'll know him when you see him," Jim said before they reached the doorman. "Frenchman, recently spent time in the African sun, head of the largest military contingent occupying Mali." 

Sherlock gave the doorman his most charming smile, noting the way the man glanced between Jim and himself... and the minute hesitation as he spotted the discolouration on their necks. After the usual polite exchange about reservations, they were ushered into a splendid and spacious dining room. Fine wood and sumptuous leather seats set the atmosphere. Surprisingly, everything was well lit instead of dimmed - it was a place to see and be seen.

On such a stage, their victim would have a white-hot spotlight. Sherlock spotted him across the room, just as Jim had known he would. The Maitre'd seated them on the opposite side of the room, but with the compound he'd selected, the distance wouldn't affect the performance they would receive.

Sherlock waited until their host left, leaning in under the pretense of murmuring an endearment in Jim's ear. "I hope you're ready for a show."

Jim folded his napkin and the barest smile curved his mouth. "I'll be ready." 

The sommelier arrived seconds later with wine options. They chose a few red burgundies and were happy to send him away as their waiters prepared for a 16 course meal finishing with either roasted duck or aged beef. Jim conversed in soft tones with Sherlock about the artistry on the walls of the room while their waiters came and went. With subtle shifts in their positioning and in the conversation, they could in turns watch the robust military man in the opposite corner, making his way through a smoked sturgeon.

Minutes passed as they worked their way through plate after lavish plate, each just enough for a taste. Sherlock swirled the wine in his glass and glanced across the room. He wasn't certain precisely when Sebastian would administer the poison.

Eventually, the target signaled that the show was about to begin. An anguished cry of surprise was followed by a crash as a plate was shoved across the man's table to shatter on the floor. His skin was flushed under his tan. Another hallucination had him swiping at empty air, then his companions as they responded in concern.

Jim's eyes widened in surprise as he looked on, fork paused halfway into a new plate. He wasn't alone. Half the restaurant had stopped, heads turning one by one as they began to notice the man rise and stumble out of his chair. He looked to be in terror before he was stricken suddenly, frozen, hand clutching at his chest before he fell. Near collectively, everyone in the restaurant put their forks down. Everyone but Jim, who, with a brow raised to his partner in salutation, sliced into his fish with a smile only Sherlock could see. 

Sherlock watched in rapt fascination as the man continued his attempts to scream, managing only a strangled sound as he clawed at his own chest. Restaurant staff rushed to the victim's side, doing their best to restrain him while the manager dialed 911. Sherlock had known the effects would be more dramatic and rapid at such a concentrated dosage, but he'd never had a chance to see a combination of potent scopolamine and atropine before.

" _Delicious_." Beside him Jim chewed slowly, savoring the moment for all it was worth. It was very fortunate that they'd received their main course before the man dropped dead off the table. Jim had rather been looking forward to his duck. "I'll have to thank Sebastian." 

He would be itching to learn what Sherlock had put in the poison, hallucinations and, from what they could tell, sudden circulatory and respiratory failure were not a common pair, yet Jim remained collected, basking in the atmosphere of panic. 

Sherlock savored a few more bites while watching the room dissolve into chaos. The other diners had begun to realize just how serious the situation was and, moreover, that food had played a crucial role in what had happened. People were rising to their feet, voices raised in anger and fear. Wait staff were desperately trying to calm the crowd and keep them away from the fallen man sprawled out on the elegant marble floor.

"It looks like dinner is prematurely concluded." The manager had made a decision and security had begun escorting people out. 

Jim dabbed at his mouth with an ivory white napkin. "I don't suppose they'll let me take this to go?" He shot an innocent look at Sherlock before a waiter turned to their table and made gestures for them to rise, as politely as he could. Jim rolled his eyes and shooed the man away, not having to try very hard as he rose to play the part of an entitled customer annoyed at having his meal inconvenienced. He huffed a sigh and straightened his jacket, and, once Sherlock was at his side, they made their way to the exit with the rest of the flustered crowd. 

Sherlock laced their fingers together, squeezing Jim's hand as they passed by a small group of expelled patrons who were tapping their smartphones with single minded focus, determined to get find juicy gossip about what had just gone down. Or, perhaps, trying to determine if they needed to rush to the emergency room to avoid a similar fate.

"I wonder how this will affect business. Having a customer die from his meal isn't conducive to retaining a stellar culinary reputation." Sherlock leaned down to whisper in Jim's ear, more relaxed now that they were out of earshot. "Jimson weed. A species of datura. Concentrated scopolamine and atropine lend a particular amount of drama."

" _Jimson_. Oh honey, you shouldn't have," Jim teased with his demon's grin. 

Sirens lit up in the background, coming their way while the pair slipped off into the dying light. Two blocks down the sidewalk, illuminated by street lamps, the lights of the towers surrounding them, and the passing headlights, they were joined by Sebastian. The tall executioner had slipped free of his dinner coat and tie and into the more casual wear of a young businessman, collar unfastened, rolled sleeves, coat in arm. He'd gone unnoticed the entire time, as he was meant to be, slipping past the kitchens and out again, seemingly never in direct contact with the food or anything suspicious otherwise, should there be video footage. 

He joined their step without missing a beat, walking on Jim's other shoulder and throwing Sherlock a wink.

"Seems your interruption didn't affect the potency," Sherlock commented. "Despite your attempts at distraction." Sherlock didn't think that Jim would have blamed him had the compound gone wrong. Or, at least, not to the extent that he would have blamed Sebastian. A dear price to pay for a little desire.  
All of which served to remind him of his own debts that were coming due. The marks around Jim's neck were still stark against the rest of his pale skin. Pleasing to behold, but Sherlock wasn't quite certain what sort of price Jim was going to exact from him.

They hadn't gone unnoticed by Sebastian either. His eyes followed Jim's neck with a rapid succession of first awe and then envy before he remembered to control his expression around the two men. Of course, being around the two men, he was caught out already. Jim only leaned his head back to laugh at Sherlock's comment, lavishly displaying his neck in the process. A calculated provocation, possibly for the liberties Seb had taken with Sherlock earlier in the night. But everything with Jim was calculated. 

"What do you say we go for ice cream? We never did get desert." There was a bounce in the little criminal's step and his tone was as lyrical as ever as they made their way down the street. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree. A vision passed through his mind - Jim savoring the cream-coloured treat, turning the spoon in his mouth and licking the hollow clean. He thought better of it. "Why not. It seems to be a day of indulgences. One more won't kill us."

Sebastian was still glancing at Jim's neck. Sherlock caught his eye and returned the man's sly wink from earlier.

Jim didn't miss it, but his smile only grew. He liked holding both of their attentions. They knew it and he knew that they knew it, but the game played on in a vicious little cycle. His hands went into his pockets and his shoulders leaned back, brushing against Sherlock's arm as they walked. Seb flanked closely on the other side, having no qualms about more 'indulgences' for the evening. Whenever he could get away with it, he was a man of little else. 

By either luck or foreknowledge, odds weighed heavily in favor of the latter, they found a fancy little corner parlor proclaiming to be both famous and Italian and served an array of milkshakes and ice cream. Jim made a beeline for it. 

Sherlock had no idea what he was getting into. He had never had much of a sweet tooth as an adult; unlike Jim, who seemed to have a supply of sweets ready-to-hand for whenever the mood struck him. The candy they'd purchased when they'd first settled in to New York hadn't lasted nearly as long as Sherlock had expected.

He stared at the listed choices, feeling a bit overwhelmed. Some of the combinations seemed odd - particularly one item that seemed to involve apple flavoured syrup. Sherlock opted a simple and classic caramel and fudge sundae, a sharp contrast from the sophisticated dishes that had been present at dinner.

Jim went for a chocolate hand dipped ice cream, with chocolate espresso beans, cookie pieces, M&M's, whipped cream, and sprinkles and even Sebastian, who opted for strawberry, gave him a sidelong look at his order. They were in out of the cold though, and that was possibly the best part of the experience, besides sliding comfortably into a booth and watching Jim try to lick off what pieces he could and bite off what pieces he couldn't. Both Sherlock and Sebastian watched his tongue with a fixed interest, and he made sure that it stayed. 

Sherlock was paying far more attention to Jim's efforts than he was to his own treat. The smaller criminal was being a purposeful tease, and all of them knew it. One particularly bold attack on the monstrous confection left Jim with a smear of whipped cream on his cheek. Sherlock reached out without a second thought and brushed the skin clean. He raised the digits to his own mouth and decided to give Jim a taste of his own medicine, taking his time in sucking them clean.

He had Jim's attention as easily as Jim had his. Bow shaped lips wrapping around his finger and pulling slowly down the length of it was the only thing that made Jim pause with his own treat.

"You two ought to slow down," Seb warned, leaning on one elbow and stirring the strawberry with a spoon to watch the show. "That stuff is likely to melt." 

"I wouldn't mind." Jim's black eyes never left Sherlock until the digit was free. "All you're doing is ramping me up for later," he added with a wicked smile.

"Which you still haven't outlined," Sherlock responded. He dipped his spoon in the caramel, watching it slowly drip back down onto the ice cream. "Are you actually going to tell me what I've agreed to, or am I not allowed to know until it's time for you to collect what's due?"

"Well now," Jim tilted his head and leaned his chin on his palm, looking at Sherlock far too fondly. "Let's think. We've been in New York for how long…? And what's the _one thing_ we haven't done?" 

"Been to a Yankees game?" Seb asked with no small amount of sarcasm. Still, he was following Jim with just as much curiosity as Sherlock, only now catching onto what they were likely talking about. Until Jim stomped on his foot underneath the table. 

The smaller man leaned in toward Sherlock, conspiratorially crooking a finger for him to come closer, and when Sherlock obliged, Jim turned his head and whispered into Sherlock's ear. 

"Tonight we're going to break into the Statue of Liberty. And you're going to fuck me above the whole city."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Only one more chapter after this one.~~ I should be more clear. The next chapter is not the end of the story, but it is the last bit we've written.

Sherlock drew back and stared at Jim like he'd just begun speaking in word salad. "You can't be serious." Jim's expression didn't waver, and Sherlock only became more flustered. "...exhibitionism? Really? While I'll agree that the landmark is... appropriately grandiose and symbolic, it will also be cold, filthy, and full of security cameras."

Jim barked a laugh while Sebastian began choking on his ice cream. "You'll remember, surveillance is my specialty. And you'll just have to wrap me up in that big coat of yours," Jim purred. "Seb will keep a lookout. On the ground. Where he will stay." The blond scowled and Jim ignored him. 

It was just as well; Sherlock didn't particularly care to have Seb watching the two of them and paying attention to his jealousy more than to possible security dangers. He wasn't certain about the idea by any means, but it seemed like a relatively simple way to make Jim happy. Or less painful, at the very least, than other alternatives. "Very well. If you take care of the cameras, I'll take care of you."

Jim's lips spread wide. His smile was pure sin. "Exactly what I wanted to hear." 

Sebastian was rolling his eyes, but there was a noticeable flush to his face that hadn't been there before. The mental image of Jim and Sherlock up in Liberty's crown had gotten to him. He shifted his hips in the seat and pushed away the rest of his ice cream before Jim was shoving him out. 

"C'mon then!" 

Sherlock snuck one last bite and followed both men out the door. Now that he'd acquiesced a second time, Jim's focus had shifted and settled firmly on his goal. Jim wasn't going to tolerate further delays. 

"I don't suppose you planned far enough ahead to be carrying supplies on your person?" Besides the cold and what was bound to be a space filled with uncomfortable metallic surfaces, there was also the issue of lacking the basic necessities. Jim might not care about being taken dry, but Sherlock certainly did.

"Lock picks, wire cutters, lube," Jim counted off on his fingers. "That should do. But honestly, this is on the spur of the moment." Jim flashed a cheeky smile over his shoulder and it was questionable as to whether he should be believed or not. Though he seemed to change his mind often, his mind was more than capable of anticipating dozens of alternate scenarios to meet them that night. 

The three of them caught a cab to the rest of the way downtown to the waterfront. 

Sherlock was more willing to bet that Jim calculated various possibilities whenever he went out and packed accordingly. He himself wasn't dissimilar - there were several tools that were permanently stored in his coat pockets. Or had been, before he'd lost that coat along with his old life. He hadn't quite gotten in the habit of carrying around even a new set of picks, much less everything that had comprised his old kit.

Sherlock's attention was drawn to the view outside as they drew closer to their destination. The city brightened the sky and made it impossible to see the stars, but the lights rippling and glinting off the water was beautiful in its own way.

Getting across to the island was going to be tricky. As tourist ferries had long ago finished for the day, they were reliant on the security crew themselves as they cleaned up and made their rounds. They would have to do it with the shift change and unfortunately, that meant both waiting hours and risking the much smaller boats used by private security. Jim, however, was not deterred. 

Once they located the speedboat that would take the night crew out on their shift, it was mostly a waiting game. Sebastian was particularly good at sneaking them all aboard out of sight of the docks and out of the light, but in order to secure their hideaway on the small boat they were forced to find enough supplies to drag onto it that they could use for cover. Not a foolproof method of concealment, but one that had to do. 

They ended up squeezed into close quarters, hidden among the supplies and hoping that no one inspected things too closely. Sherlock was wrapped around Jim and tucked down in the shadows. The chill coming off the water was more intense than Sherlock had been expecting, nowhere near comparable to the cooling effect of the Thames. Jim's body was pleasant for the warmth as well as the company, but Sherlock found himself worrying about just how cold they were going to get once they reached the torch.

With Sebastian squirming in behind him, trying to get them as close as possible under a tarp and comfortable enough to remain that way for the trip over, it did at least help for the moment. They could barely see one another in the blackness of their hideaway, but there was warm breath in the back of Sherlock's curls and the very faint outline of Jim's gleaming eyes and grinning face. He seemed to be enjoying the cramped quarters if the fingers pulling at the waist of Sherlock's shirt and tickling against his skin just to have the warm contact were any indication. 

Voices of men came soon after, heading down the docks straight toward them. It didn't take much deduction to know that this was the shift change they had been waiting for. Minutes later the boat was dipping with their weight and the engine was coming to life. 

Sherlock let his eyes slide close. The rumbling of the engine filled his ears and sent vibrations through him, absorbed through the floor of the boat. Between the lulling effect that had, and the darkness, and the warm bodies pressed against him, Sherlock felt... detached. Like he'd stumbled into a small closet, sectioned off from the rest of reality. Jim's hands had slipped under his shirt and Sebastian was flush against his back, muscular arms holding all of them in place.

There were worse places to be. 

Swiftly they gained speed across the water. The rocking was pleasant at first, then quickened to break against the waves at a hard, rhythmic pace, jostling them all against each other for long minutes until the boat slowed and the voices of the men could be heard again. They made only mild complaints about what they assumed was their supervisor using their craft as a storage trolley, but none moved to inspect the pile of odds and ends in the back of the boat before they docked and made their way to shore. 

The three stowaways waited until the voices had long faded while Jim's lips teasingly brushed Sherlock's over and over again under the cover of darkness. 

Jim had to feel the way Sherlock's heartbeat sped up in response, fluttering beneath his palms. Sherlock couldn't pull back, couldn't even begin to move until Seb got out first. "...Jim, Jim, st-" Even his words were swallowed up. Jim was living darkness, pulling him in and keeping him trapped in his own little dark corner of the world, slowly devouring him whole. "Seb, get off."

The warm body against his back shifted, but closer. Seb must have realized what Jim was doing because his own mouth found the back of Sherlock's neck and placed a slow, biting kiss just behind his ear. And then the weight was pulling back, just as Jim's tongue caressed his upper lip and the tarp was pulled back. 

Cold air washed over the space of their little cocoon and Seb stood above them, looking down with a little smirk of his own while Jim refused to let go. The blond didn't dare chide them for risk of being heard, but it was all in his eyes anyway.

Sherlock's sharp grey eyes had turned cloudy and dark. It took him a moment for the cool air to truly sink in and shake him out of his daze. He looked up at Seb standing over them, smug and leering ever so slightly, and it occured to him that these two men might just be the death of him. 

Sherlock struggled and finally managed to get upright, bearing Jim's weight as well as his own. Jim hadn't wanted to let go, digging nails into Sherlock's skin until he hissed at the sting. Only once they were both upright, Jim half-carried in Sherlock's arms, did the smaller man finally relax his hold. 

Seb led the way as they snuck down the dock and quickly onto the grass, avoiding the walkways altogether. Jim couldn't have been any more ungainly pressed against Sherlock's side with his short legs trying to keep up with Sherlock's long ones, but somehow they managed. They followed Seb through the dark, ducking low across the lawn, avoiding the likely areas for surveillance cameras until they came to the information center. 

Under the cover of the trees, Seb motioned them closer and Jim handed him the lock picks while he pulled out the wire cutters. He would have to go in and find the breaker for the cameras to manually cut power to the few they would need to take out. If he took all of them out, they would be noticed within minutes. Two or three would be assumed to be a server error, if they were noticed at all. Silently, he held up his phone, indicating that he would give them the signal when the cameras were out. 

Sherlock glanced about. Thus far there was no sign of the security crew they'd traveled with, but they were sure to be making rounds on a regular basis. Without knowing their routes, they had no way of predicting how much time they had to work with. He stayed close to Jim and watched Seb slink off towards the Info Center door. The bodyguard made short work of the door locks and disappeared inside.

Sherlock wrapped around Jim again, protective, one hand stroking his black hair while the other held him close. Jim didn't need protection, not really, but it was an impulse that Sherlock had been finding difficult to ignore as of late.

Jim welcomed it by tipping his head back into Sherlock's embrace. And then he was turning, catching Sherlock's sleeve and taking the detective with him back through the trees toward the monument until they reached the edge of the grove. They would need to know the cameras were out before they went any farther. It would be a dash across the clearing to the star shaped concrete base, and then as quickly as they could into the statue itself. 

Sherlock's hand dipped into his coat pocket and closed around another set of picks. He eyed the doors leading into the monument, but they were too far away to be able to guess at the lock type. Given the propensity for terrorists to target well-known landmarks for their symbolic value, he wouldn't be surprised if security had spared no expense to upgrade to the latest designs. 

Minutes passed, tension growing as they both watched for security guards to come into view. At long last, Jim's phone buzzed; Seb had succeeded with the cameras. Sherlock rushed for the monument doors, picks already in hand.

Jim's feet came pounding after him. Together they were a blur across the walk until they reached the granite pedestal and darted around to the entrance. Jim slammed his back against the wall and took up a lookout while Sherlock swiftly removed his lock picks and got to work. They would have to get through two sets of doors, but Sherlock was quick and soon they were moving again, Jim sliding in behind the detective and slipping the heavy outer door shut behind them. 

Sherlock was only vaguely aware of Jim's presence at his side. His concentration was elsewhere, gaze darting in search of the still-active cameras they've have to avoid. He crouched in front of the second set of doors, hands deftly manipulating the slender bits of metal until he heard a quiet click. The handle turned and they were in.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty lobby. Sherlock ignored the model of the torch taking up the center of the room. Visitor signs pointed out the direction of the stairway up to the crowd, and _only_ the crown. "Where are the stairs to the torch?" he muttered.

"It's not a staircase, it's a ladder splitting off from the stairs to the crown halfway up. They'll have blocked it off for anything but maintenance. We'll have to open it when we get there," Jim said at his shoulder. Dark and amused eyes gleamed up at Sherlock, catching him in Jim's gaze as if the criminal could turn his limbs to stone. Behind Jim's dark head was a plaque. In glorious irony, it read 'give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free' and for a moment he stood there with it, his smile seeming one of desecration instead of the endearment to Sherlock's ignorance of popular culture that it was. 

"Right, fine." Sherlock could read Jim's amusement clearly, and it raised his hackles. His eyes narrowed and his jaw set into a stubborn line. He'd never taken mockery well, even when it was harmless and tempered with fondness. "We'd best start moving. We've got quite a climb ahead of us."

Sherlock turned on his heel and swept off in the direction of the stairwell. He could only hope his irritation settled by the time they got to the top of the monument.

He could hear Jim behind him, footfalls rapidly taking the stairs to keep up. They moved quickly near the base where the area was wider, but gradually it narrowed into a circular staircase leading up to the crown. They did find the blocked off entrance to the arm, however, still functional only as a maintenance staircase it was indeed locked as Jim had predicted. He leaned in close and whispered over Sherlock's shoulder as he brought out the lock picks again. "I do hope you're not claustrophobic."

Sherlock knelt to pick the door open. He tried not to think about the suggestion, but Jim's words had struck another cord in him - a memory he normally kept well-buried. The cramped space and too-warm air of a cupboard occupied for too long, and a sliver of light between the panels, revealing dead eyes and gore-stained carpet. Sherlock could feel the muscles in his back stiffen and clench. 

With Jim so close, pressing into his back in anticipation of their ascent, he could surely feel it. Slim hands pressed firmly against Sherlock's shoulder blades and Jim's presence solidified, reminding him that they were far away and that Jim and only Jim was here and real. He couldn't have known why Sherlock tensed, but so attuned to Sherlock was he now that the response was instinctual. 

Sherlock's breath left him in a sharp hiss. His hands paused for a moment. "Don't bring that up." The lock clicked, and suddenly he was back to his full height and shouldering through the door, dragging Jim with him.

A short tunnel with a few more steps greeted them, a ladder visible at the other end. Sherlock's body had already started to ache just from climbing the stairs thus far, a reminder that he'd already pushed his limits earlier in the day. The painkillers had left his veins, and he doubted Jim would permit him to self-administer a new dose at the moment.

So they continued on, Sherlock leading the way gingerly up the ladder with Jim right behind him. It was indeed a very small space. Like climbing through the bowels of a space shuttle, hand over hand on the metal rails, passing a latticework of bolts and rebar, they went until they reached the hatch at the very top. Fortunately, it required little effort to break open as Sherlock had to do it holding the door awkwardly above his head, but moments later it lifted and they broke into open air. 

Both men scrambled out onto the platform. It was as cold as Sherlock had expected, a chill from the water combining with the high altitude to form a warmth-leeching atmosphere. Sherlock moved cautiously; their weight wouldn't make the arm break off, but he still imagined he could feel the structure swaying in the wind. Golden light from the torch spread about the platform like a halo, extending only so far before getting swallowed by the darkness. Manhattan glittered and sparkled in the distance.

"Is this what you wanted?" Sherlock asked.

Jim breathed a deep lungful of the cold air, his breath misting on exhale. Half his mouth quirked up in a bemused smile when he ran a hand over the gold leaf of the flame, like he were a bit surprised to see it. It lasted only a second before he turned his attention to Sherlock. Slight trembles ran through Jim's smaller frame, an obvious sign the cold was getting to him, but he didn't show it in his expression. His posture was as open as ever, and if it weren't for that little sign, he would have seemed to be completely at ease so high above the water. This time, his palm lifted to Sherlock's face. "Yes."

Sherlock leaned into Jim's palm and watched him in silence. The shivers made the smaller man look more vulnerable, more human. Sherlock often forgot that Jim was anything other than what he painted himself to be - invincible, larger than life, shadows and dreams and data and blood instead of a spirit clothed in flesh like everyone else.

But Jim was never like everyone else. Neither was he. That was the entire point - both of them trapped in a lesser world, but one they manipulated for their own pleasure.

Sherlock began unfastening Jim's clothing first, just enough to give access. He stripped off his gloves and slid his hands up underneath the hem of Jim's shirt.

The flesh quivered under his touch, but Jim leaned into him. Sherlock's hands were warm from the gloves, but so was the smooth skin of Jim's belly. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck and he lifted to press his hips against Sherlock's, encouraging the taller man to finish what he'd started with Jim's buttons. A warm mouth nipped at his ear, and Sherlock could tell Jim wasn't kissing him yet just so he could take in the incredible view around them. They may not have been at the highest point in the whole of New York, but they were on top of it. The creaking of the platform they stood on, the gentle sway of the statue, and the biting cold they endured were all unmistakable reminders that this spot they'd claimed as theirs was real, that they were real, not an abstract theory built on the sum of theoretical numbers created by one of their wandering minds in a night of too little sleep or too much heroin. This city was theirs now, and this was them laying claim over it. 

Sherlock leaned down and nuzzled at Jim's neck while he made short work of the rest of his clothing. He stripped off Jim's trousers and pants, but left the rest. His fingers went to his own buttons next, unfastening his coat until it draped like dark, woolen wings, and tugging Jim into the circle of warmth. Jim's wrists were snatched and brought to Sherlock's waistband; they were equal participants in this. 

A breathy chuckle met him in return, but Jim's hands were quick to work going for the button and flies, warming against Sherlock's skin before they dipped inside. The brush of Jim's palm was still a tingle of cold, but it heated within seconds of wrapping around Sherlock's flesh. Jim's strokes were languid but deliberate and finally he was reaching up to meet Sherlock's mouth. The smaller body in Sherlock's arms pressed to him as best as Jim could, pushing Sherlock back against the base of the flame in his attempt to seek out the warmth of the taller man and there Jim ground against him, groaning into his mouth and squeezing his hand just the way he knew would get Sherlock hard and fast. 

The cold around them was quickly becoming less and less important. Sherlock's awareness contracted away from the city in the distance, even from the sway of the platform, focus narrowed down to the shorter criminal pressed against him, all demands and hunger. Sherlock's body didn't need much convincing to awaken.

The detective nipped at Jim's mouth while his hands searched through Jim's pockets. Sure enough, there was a small bottle hidden away in one. Sherlock extracted it with a chuckle. "...should I even ask whether you always carried such things before I accompanied you?"

"No." Jim teased back with his lips and teeth and tongue moving down Sherlock's neck and then hissed when the cold gel met his own hardening cock, Sherlock's hand brushing down the length of it and sending a full bodied shiver up Jim's spine before the long fingers dipped lower. Jim's thighs parted and he pulled himself up by wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders beneath his big coat. 

Sherlock smiled; there was something about having a partner that was significantly shorter. He didn't need to say anything. Jim already knew Sherlock enjoy the difference.

He wrapped an arm around Jim's waist to help keep him in place, then let his hand wander further. Jim's muscles were tight from the cold; the gel only seemed to make his body tense further in protest. Sherlock carefully slipped one finger inside, watching Jim's face for signs of pain. In truth, he wasn't certain Jim would say anything even if he was in discomfort.

Dark lashes lowered and Jim's head tipped back, giving him a very nice view of the criminal's face open and waiting for more. He gave a whine from the back of his throat and his hips wiggled and pressed down, trying to push back on Sherlock's hand. In spite of the cold, Jim was more impatient than ever. Trying a different tactic when Sherlock still waited, he brushed his lips against the taller man's and rubbed his hip against the front of Sherlock's open trousers. 

"Always in such a rush," Sherlock chided, but he complied nonetheless, slipping another finger in. His wrist turned and he thrust slowly, both a reward and a tease. "We've got time." Sherlock's teeth found Jim's neck, dragged along the sensitive skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jim's still wriggled in his grasp. It was flattering, to be so wanted by a man who rejected everyone else, who wouldn't permit anyone else to touch him like this.

The smaller man's breath was hitching whenever Sherlock stroked and the lips at his neck were spread wide. Jim didn't mind the teasing. They both knew how impatient he was to be in the moment he was so desperate for. It was funny how he could lie in wait for a job, slowly building it up with months of calculated movements, but put him in Sherlock's arms for a matter of minutes and he couldn't hold back. He sucked on a dark patch of skin at Sherlock's neck, just to make it burn and feel Sherlock's lean muscle tense under his touch. 

Sherlock hissed at the resulting ache, then bit down on one of the bruises he'd left earlier that evening. If Jim was trying to drive caution out of his mind, he was succeeding. A third finger slipped in, testing, and he withdrew his hand. 

A thought occurred, and the beauty of the image was such that Sherlock inhaled sharply. Jim didn't get any warning before he was lifted and turned. The smaller man was pressed up against the torch's base, haloed by the light. Sherlock paused to admire the effect for a split second, and then he had Jim's legs wrapped around his waist and slowly thrust upward.

Jim gasped out loudly. His lower back stiffened at the intrusion and his legs tightened around Sherlock, but he didn't take his eyes off the detective. Holding him up against the column, Jim was raised to the same level now and his mouth dropped open, panting out heavy bursts of air when Sherlock thrust again.

The way the detective was looking at him, like Jim was a thing of impossible wonder, like he himself was emitting the very light shining behind him, made his head roll back in a euphoria he so rarely felt. His fingers wrapped themselves in Sherlock's hair and Jim's arms drew him in. 

A flicked of a smile touched Sherlock's lips before he started to move in earnest. There was something poetic about claiming Jim here, not only atop the symbol America regarded as a representation of freedom, but fucking Jim against the very symbol of enlightenment -two geniuses joined against the torch of intellectualism, burning each other up. Jim looked unearthly, lit by the glow.

Their mouths joined, and Sherlock remembered himself just enough to snake one hand between them. Partially sheltered by Sherlock's coat, his fingers wrapped around Jim's cock and began to stroke him, moving in counterpoint to his thrusts.

A sound escaped Jim, muffled between their lips. It caught in the wind and, though pitched high between them, died so high up in the air as it left their little space. They could shout and scream if they wanted to and no one would hear them. And when Jim wrenched his mouth away and through his head back, he nearly did. Breathy moans escaped his lips, coming as quick as Sherlock's thrusts, driving him on and coaxing the fire between them to a new level. Jim used his leverage on Sherlock's shoulders to drive himself down and the press of the column to push up into Sherlock's hand. Everything in him was tightening, constricting, becoming a tangle of energy and sensation and just then it was like Jim wanted them to be seen. The way his voice rang out and his back arched up toward the sky, as though putting himself on display for the world like a king on his throne. Jim came then, spurting into Sherlock's fist and slicking the friction of his strokes.

Grey eyes admired the way Jim arched as he climaxed, the lines of his mouth as he cried out. Hunger gripped Sherlock and his pace quickened. He couldn't get enough of Jim, no matter what he did - kissing and biting, nails digging into his partner's skin, fucking him like he wanted to split Jim open and curl around the core of him. He didn't long. Sherlock's voice followed Jim's in a hoarse shout, pinning the smaller man against the column with a shudder one last time.

Jim turned to jelly in his arms. His arms around Sherlock's neck barely held him and if it weren't for the taller man's iron hold, he would have slipped down to the platform they stood on. The heat between them was just as intense as the cold now, kept at bay by Sherlock's coat and the sheer amount of it between their bodies. When Jim fought to regain some control again, his legs tightened, keeping Sherlock buried inside him and holding him there, locked in Jim's web. 

Even through the pleasant haze of orgasm, Sherlock's body was beginning to reiterate its complaints about the day's abuse. His arms quivered from the effort of holding Jim up. He pressed a kiss against the arch of Jim's neck, then worked at untangling them. "Jim. Let go. Let's get you warmed up and go home." Home, where he could dull the pain and slip into a well-deserved sleep.

" _No_ ," The smaller man whined from the back of his throat. His arms and legs wrapped tighter around Sherlock and Jim hung on, even when the body he was wrapped around tried to lean back. They did have to go. Seb couldn't wait forever down on the ground and they had to get out, but Jim had found contentment and he was not about to give it up until the cold drove him to do so. 

"Jim," Sherlock sighed. Flattering as it was to be so wanted and to have secure knowledge that Jim would never push him out of his life, Jim's possessiveness was occasionally aggravating. "I'm too tired to hold you up any longer, and it's only getting colder. We need to leave before security notices the cameras we've disabled." He stroked a hand down the smaller man's back. "Let go. You can hold onto me on the way home, and when we get back to my room, but we have to go."

Jim breathed a heavy sigh in Sherlock's hair and, after a moment more to keep Sherlock there, his limbs slackened and let the taller man pull back. The cold that had been seeping past their barriers before hit them suddenly and Jim hissed, scrabbling for his trousers. He had little time to allow for getting himself clean before pulling them on and finding his shoes. Everything was cold. Wearing clothes that had been lying on the steel bars was like wrapping his skin with icicles. Still, he caught Sherlock's hip and took one last look out over the water before they opened the hatch. The banks of the city lay nestled on the other side. Their home for now, because they had made it so. 

Sherlock's arms shook as they descended. His body had decided that it had had enough and no longer wanted to cooperate. He climbed down as quickly as he dared. Every now and again he glanced up at Jim, checking him for signs of hypothermia. Luckily, Jim seemed chilled but perfectly fine. 

They moved quickly through the building back to the front doors. Their footsteps echoed in the empty halls and stairwells. Sherlock paused once they reached the exit, scanned for guards, then grabbed Jim's hand and dragged Jim back outside.

Two more glances around the corner of the base and they were running across the yard again. Both were gasping when they reached the tree line, Jim from the burn of the cold in his lungs and Sherlock from his extra pains in addition. Moving back farther out of sight, Jim took out his phone to text Sebastian. No news was good news from the bodyguard, but they needed to find him. 

A quiet ping from above them sounded, startling both men in the dark, and then Seb dropped between them from high up in one of the trees. 

Sherlock jumped in surprise and stared back at the bodyguard's smirk. The expression made something tighten in him in response, remembering their interactions earlier in the day. "We're ready to go. Is the way clear back to the boat?" They'd have to hotwire the engine and take the craft back to shore, but by the time the security crew realized they were stranded, it would be too late.

"Should be. I don't want to risk making a detour back to the information center just to turn the cameras back on, so we'll have to hope they don't notice by then. Follow me." Seb turned swiftly and led them through the grove. If Jim was displeased at being ordered about, he didn't say anything. Sherlock had by now noticed that in ground tactics he allowed Seb of the rare opportunity to take control, until Jim saw a better option at least. 

They made their way back to the water, and Seb surveyed the area, going so far as to run up and down beside the walk just to find the security guards and make sure they weren't going to be interrupted.  
When he returned, he led them in a quick dash down the dock and back onto the boat. 

Sherlock and Jim lept onto the craft right behind Seb. The bodyguard made for the controls, which left Jim and Sherlock alone to keep watch for witnesses. Sherlock took advantage of the moment to drape himself around Jim again and lend the smaller man a bit of body heat. Within moments the boat rumbled beneath their feet; Seb had gotten the engine started without trouble.

The blond reached over their side to untie the boat and when they were free, gunned the motor. Jim let out a whoop of laughter as they were knocked back. He and Sherlock sat down quickly after while Seb shot a grin over his shoulder. 

Lights came on far down the shore, and with the telltale bounce of flashlights they knew the security guards were running along the path, having heard the roar of the motor. 

"Once we reach shore, we'll need to ditch the boat and make a run for it," Seb shouted over the wind. 

"Shut up and drive!" Jim shouted back. Sherlock was looking pained at the new burst of cold and his lack of medication, and Jim was noticing. 

The kit in Sherlock's pocket felt like lead. His thoughts refocused and calculated the minutes before they'd lose pursuit and make it to a stopping point. All he needed was a few minutes and he could take care of the pain. 

A glance behind them showed the guards stuck on the shore behind them, but Sherlock had no doubt that one of them would radio for help. They had a few minutes before they would know just how quickly backup might respond.

Seb kept them moving as fast as he could, which meant breaking against the small waves in a hard and rapid succession of crashes, jostling them uncomfortably with each one. At that speed, the water felt like hitting uneven concrete. Jim's arm snaked around Sherlock's middle in return and he leaned in to support the taller man. 

Finally, they reached the shore. Seb killed the motor and let them drift in, but they came in quickly still. With the rope in one hand and motioning for Sherlock and Jim to join him, he was ready for it. They climbed to their feet and got a leg up on the side, waiting for the shore. When they were just close enough, Seb jumped. His feet hit the hard gravel and so did the boat's underside, getting it stuck until he gave the rope a hard tub and pulled it closer, allowing Jim and Sherlock to launch themselves on the shore before he let go. 

Sherlock abandoned the ship and scrambled onto the shoreline. So far, so good - no backup had appeared yet in response to the guards now stranded on the island. 

"Get us out of sight. _Now_ ," Sherlock snapped when Seb gave him a sideways glance. The raised eyebrow he got in response only made him more irritable. Keeping his temper had never been one of Sherlock's strong suits, particularly when he felt unwell.

"C'mon." Seb turned and jogged up the waterfront. He'd had to take them to the Brooklyn side since getting back to downtown New York would have been impossible without being spotted by the police and they would have had to cross a whole state park on foot on the Jersey side. As it was, their boat had likely been spotted by _someone_ while coming in, but as soon as they had hit shore they'd be lost among the docks and warehouses. They ran across a factory parking lot before they found the nearest road. As soon as they found a cross street, Jim texted for a cab. 

They'd have a few minutes before the vehicle arrived. Sherlock detached from the group and ducked into a nearby alley to get a bit of privacy. A quick inspection affirmed that his kit was still all intact, needles unbent and vials unbroken.

Sherlock worked quickly, unbuttoning his cuff and rolling up his sleeve. He could see Jim's shadow at the entrance to the alley out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. His hands moved with the dexterity of long practice, disinfecting the skin, measuring the correct dosage, eliminating air bubbles, administering. A few seconds later and the worst of the pain began to ebb and dull.

When he emerged again, Jim was leaning with his back against the wall. Seb had remained where he was, but crouched low on a bench so as not to be seen so easily by anyone but the taxi they had called for. 

Jim's head rested against the wall behind him. His eyes blinked slowly closed and open before his neck turned and his head rolled to look at Sherlock like some kind of reptile. "All better?"

"Getting there." Sherlock's words were soft and slightly slurred. The pain had diminished, but his fatigue remained, and the drugs only slowed his responses more. His movements, however, seemed far more relaxed than the stiffness that had marked their descent and escape. Sherlock drifted back to Jim's side and mirrored the smaller man's posture. "Remind me never to let Seb rough me up right before I have to do excessive legwork."

Jim chuckled where he stood. His head rolled from one side to the other, just feeling the brick of the wall behind him, and then he was turning, standing in front of Sherlock and placing his hands against the wall behind the tall man as if to trap him in spite of Sherlock's height. Jim leaned close and bent his head to Sherlock's shoulder. "I could do almost anything to you like this, couldn't I? In the moments right after." He lifted his head and looked into Sherlock's half lidded eyes. "Tell me how you feel."

Sherlock blinked, slow to follow Jim's words. He couldn't tell through the haze whether or not to read a threat in Jim's intentions. "Warm, relaxed. Invincible. Untouchable I suppose, in a way. I don't feel as much physically, and nothing seems to matter as much. Like a dream when you know you're dreaming." Sherlock stared down into the dark eyes that pinned him in place just as thoroughly as Jim's hands. "It's difficult to think. The difference between walking on concrete and trudging through water. It's more difficult to focus on things, but when you do, they seem more fascinating. More beautiful."

The black eyes narrowed and Jim's lips curled in delight at the insinuation. Sherlock could no more break their gaze than he could move away, and he was the sole focus of Sherlock's attention. Jim leaned in again, up this time to whisper against Sherlock's mouth. "Next time, I'll take you like this." 

Their cab was coming down the street. Just in time too. Sirens sounded in the distance. 

Sherlock quivered at the insinuation, able to picture all too easily what the experience might be like. Jim was overwhelming even when sober.

The taxi pulled over to the kerb and all three men piled into the back, Sherlock with notably less grace than he normally possessed. The detective leaned against Jim for support as soon as they were settled. Seb gave the cabbie his orders and then they were winding back through the city towards their flat.

"All in all, a very good night." Jim wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and enjoyed the warmth. They all did. Seb and the cabbie talked about nothing. Apart from Seb's scars, less noticeable in the dark, the three of them looked like wealthy urban professionals coming home from a very late night or a very wild party. Possibly both. And Sebastian played it up for all it was worth with a few interjections from Jim to help the cover along. By the time they were dropped off, Sherlock was still leaning on Jim's shoulder and Jim was doing nothing to deter him. They made their way through the lobby and all the way back up to the flat like that. 

They'd barely gotten in the door and out of their coats before Sherlock tugged Jim toward the stairs. The detective had given serious thought to a warm shower before his fatigue overruled the consideration. He wanted sleep, comfort, and warmth, and while he could get all three by himself, that wasn't his preference. He'd gotten into the habit of sharing a bed with Jim whenever their sleep schedules coincided. 

Sherlock could feel Seb's eyes on his back as he led Jim up towards his bedroom. 

Jim took no notice of it, following Sherlock with an easy patience that suggested he was just as interested in observing Sherlock as Sherlock was in relaxing. When they reached Sherlock's rooms, Jim he leaned up and pulled the heavy coat from Sherlock's shoulders. The detective had been too tired to waste time removing it downstairs, and so Jim laid it over the back of a chair before he caught Sherlock's elbow and turned him. Button by button, Jim moved from his collar down to his waistband and removed the barrier to his skin, revealing the patches that were livid with bruises. 

Sherlock didn't object to the assistance. They'd moved past the fights over Jim's treatment; Sherlock had begun to feel more secure that he was being thought of as an equal, and with that security had come an easing of some of the residual tension between the two men. He let Jim strip off his shirt before he flopped down onto the mattress. The bed dipped on either side of his legs as Jim followed, and Sherlock opened his eyes to find Jim crouched over him and working on the remainder of his clothing.

If there was one thing Jim liked when he slept with Sherlock, it was the expanse of skin Sherlock made with his long body. Jim was a little demon, pulling off Sherlock's shoes, his trousers, his pants, and socks until he was bare and Jim began working on his own clothing. When he was free, he slid up beside Sherlock, half on top of him, and flicked a curl back from heavy grey eyes. 

"Covers," Sherlock murmured. Jim complied, and as soon as they under the sheets Sherlock curled against Jim's smaller body. "Still feel cold. Even after the ride back." Sherlock was amazed that Jim hadn't shown more discomfort. He'd been far more exposed to the chill than Sherlock himself. "Let's not make extreme temperatures a regular occurrence for that sort of thing."

"Agreed." A breath chuckled against Sherlock's neck. Jim's arms ran up and down Sherlock's back, warming what skin he could reach. The detective was one giant ice cube. He hadn't warmed up well since they got back and Jim got as close as he could to share their body heat. The blankets tucked under Sherlock's chin helped, but they also made him look a little ridiculous. Jim smiled and bent their foreheads together. 

Sherlock was slowly beginning to thaw, thanks to Jim's body pressed against him and the blankets trapping the heat. Jim was staring into him again, trying to reach out through their connection, and Sherlock let him in. There was something different this time, though - something right beneath the surface, a whisper that was just shy of being audible. A frown creased Sherlock's brow and he reached deeper.

"...you did something. Something at the Statue that you've not told me." Memories surfaced and flashed by in quick succession; Sherlock couldn't remember Jim leaving his sight, which meant it was planned out prior to their arrival.

Jim's smile turned devilish. Sherlock could see the well of fondness, of excitement and anticipation, rising up inside his ribcage and bubbling into his throat, but Jim kept his mouth firmly shut. Whatever it was, it was trapped just there on the tip of his tongue. "You'll know soon. And it will be," Jim closed his eyes to savor the thought, "glorious."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He reviewed the possibilities - Jim hadn't left his sight, and he hadn't dropped anything out of his pockets to mark their passage. Sebastian had been outside, busy keeping watch for the security guards and-

Sherlock's rage twisted his features, even through the calming effect of the drugs. Suddenly he wasn't feeling tired and relaxed. "You did _not_ have my permission to do that. That was not part of the agreement." He shoved at Jim where the man had twined around him, cold be damned.

Jim gave a shriek that was almost a laugh, so delighted was he at his own machinations that not even Sherlock's rebuff could faze him. When Sherlock pulled away and turned his back, Jim followed, hovering over his smooth shoulder. " _Sherlock_ , come now. It's time to come out of the closet, shed this veil of death. It will be beautiful." 

"You don't know what you've done," Sherlock snapped. He turned to glare at Jim over his shoulder. "I am not an exhibitionist. I loathed being spotlighted by the media even when fully clothed, and _you are going to bring Mycroft down on us_." Sherlock's voice trailed off into a harsh rasp. "If he hasn't already found out, he will. It will be war. He won't leave us alone once he realizes I'm alive."

Jim placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The pads of his fingers kneaded the lean muscle beneath, burning all the way down to Sherlock's bones. "Your brother was only a matter of time. You knew that as well as I did. I am done hiding, Sherlock. And you are ready now. We'll give them a war they'll never forget." 

Jim was calm now, his face soft, but the blackness in his gaze unrelenting. There was a stoniness within him and a fury burning cold and hiding in his web of anonymity for so long that it yearned for more. Jim yearned for a fight. 

Beneath his own anger, Sherlock felt a cold coil of fear. The dream was beginning to break down. Sherlock had known that his brother would eventually catch on to the fact that he was still alive, but he'd hoped for that day to be quite a ways down the line. Finding that security feed would bring a hurricane down on their heads, and the storm wouldn't end without casualties.

Sherlock couldn't stomach the thought of sacrificing his lover or his brother. "You don't know what you're asking for."

Those words brought a stillness over Jim, cooling the churning fury inside him for now. His hand found Sherlock's cheek and turned him face to face again. Jim knew what he meant. For that, the criminal was sorry, Sherlock could see it in him. His fingers smoothed over pale skin, stroking Sherlock's cheek as if to say so by touch, to say that he was sorry for hurting Sherlock so very much, but everything he had done had been for a reason. Jim asked for what he needed. He took and manipulated and coerced and escalated because he _needed_ it. "We can't hide forever. Our greatness was meant for so much more than that." 

"You've hurt me, again, without consulting my opinion on the matter, and put me in the position where I may have to watch my brother die. Along with whoever else he might send in an attempt to manipulate me. I am willing to concede that you acted out of what you thought was in the best interests for both of us previously, but I'm unconvinced with this." Sherlock didn't pull away, but his eyes were hard. "This was for your personal benefit and pleasure. Not for mine."

"No, Sherlock. Although I can't deny it isn't also for my benefit, I am simply speeding up the clock. Would you rather me wait and feign surprise when he does find us? How long do you think it would take, several months? Do you really think that I, of all people, would sit back and let him take the upper hand? You can paint me as the selfish instigator if you wish, but we already knew this was inescapable." Jim stared unblinkingly back. 

Sherlock glared. He felt trapped, yet again, stuck in the middle of a tug of war. His desires were in direct conflict with one another, and yet he was petrified of making a choice. "I am not killing Mycroft for you, and I won't forgive you if you have him killed," he snapped. Tense as things had been between them in the last few years, he was the last family member Sherlock had left, and the only one that had understood him most of the time. Mycroft had practically been his surrogate parent - it would be fratricide and patricide combined.

"Your brother still thinks he has such power over you. I intend to prove to him that he doesn't, and that if he wishes for his precious way of life to go on as it is, he will accept it. If all goes well, no one need die. He will simply need to let us be." Jim held Sherlock's gaze, refusing to break it. "I won't ask you to kill him. I will make that consideration for you."

"Get out." Sherlock wasn't in the mood to be charitable, not with this. He knew Mycroft better than anyone, knew that his brother would never just leave them be, and a countdown had been started. Sherlock didn't want to reward Jim's manipulation with a comfortable night spent in his bed. Particularly when Jim was addressing him with such patronizing tones, talking about _considerations_.

Something hardened behind Jim's eyes and his presence that had been so openly readable to Sherlock shrank back into himself before he stopped it, trying to keep the connection between them. That had hurt Jim as surely as if Sherlock had backhanded him. Slowly, the connection closed of its own accord. Jim pulled back, sitting up and lingering on the edge of the bed, just looking down at Sherlock until he slid off all the way. He looked like he wanted to say something, but perhaps argue or entreat Sherlock further, but he held himself back before he turned. 

When Sebastian came back from the kitchen, he found Jim sitting in the dark of the living room contemplating time. 

Jim had the sense that he had miscalculated Sherlock's own sense of time. He needed to be away from his brother for much, much longer to find the stability to go head to head with him. Time like that could take years, and they didn't have years. They had months at best before Mycroft discovered the true identity of Richard Brook, if he already hadn't, and went looking for Moriarty. If he found Moriarty, he would find Sherlock.

The gunman neglected the light and moved to the couch adjacent Jim's chair, glancing at his boss. Jim gave no sign he acknowledged Sebastian's presence, which meant he would have to speak if he wanted Jim to come out of his thoughts. "Get kicked out on the couch tonight, huh?" 

Jim's eyes didn't break from the city below. "We're going public." Seb would know what he meant. This had not been the first time in the past year or so that Jim had talked about the idea, longed for it, even. "I need to know Sherlock will stay by my side. We have a war ahead of us." 

Sherlock, left to the emptiness and quiet upstairs, was still as cold as ever with an echoing chill that had seeped into his core. This would be the first time he would have to sleep alone in...weeks. He hadn't done so since Jim had first invited him into his bed.

Sherlock levered himself upright and decided a hot shower wasn't more effort than it was worth.

He lingered under the hot water for an indeterminate amount of time. It soothed his body but did nothing to stop the churning of his mind. The sensation of being trapped and steadily drawing closer to a cliff edge had imbued him with a vague sense of panic. 

He couldn't stay. He needed to go out. For fresh air at the very least.

He threw on a new set of clothes and retrieved his coat from where Jim had draped it. Eli watched him with empty sockets while he tucked his kit back into his pocket. Sherlock didn't appreciate the silent judgment from his mortality-challenged friend. Giving his coat one last tug, Sherlock left his room and quickly descended the stairs. He ignored Jim and Sebastian's silhouettes by the window as he pressed the call button for the lift.

They sat in silence while Sherlock left, Sebastian glancing up and watching the back of his shoulders unabashedly until Sherlock stepped out. Jim never moved. 

When Sherlock was gone, Seb's blue eyes slid back to Jim. "Want me to tail him?" 

Jim's eyes closed and even Seb could tell the movement was pained. "No." 

Sherlock descended to the ground floor in silence. He didn't know whether Jim would send Sebastian after him or not. In all honesty, it wouldn't matter. He wasn't going to run _away_ , he just needed time _out_. 

He walked without purpose until he spotted a free cab. In an instant, Sherlock was struck with a destination. Music had always been a medium he turned to when overwhelmed by his own emotional responses, and he had yet to see the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. If he was lucky, he'd be able to find a way into the building and catch part of a performance, unobserved.

Minutes later, he arrived at Lincoln Center Plaza, on the other side of Central Park. The archways of the Metropolitan Opera could be seen only a few feet away. Sherlock paid the cabbie and began to circumambulate the building, looking for a way in.

Across the wide courtyard, on the other side of the golden waterfall, there was a shape of a man who caught Sherlock's eye. Somehow unlike the silhouettes of men and women that walked scattered in small groups through the plaza, hurrying to get between the hall and the theater or wherever else their nightly little lives took them, this man's gait seemed familiar. He was down at the very end, and seemed to be just coming out of the cafe with a steaming cup clutched tightly in his hands, a sure sign he'd been there for some time. 

An alarm rose at the back of Sherlock's mind, and he found himself hurrying for cover. Listening to his instincts had saved him many times before, and sure enough, a moment's observation confirmed his suspicions.

It was John Watson. Doctor John Watson, inexplicably a world away from London, wandering around in the evening hours near buildings that typically would not have presented entertainment that matched John's aesthetical tastes. It was too much to be mere coincidence, and yet... Sherlock found that he couldn't look away. Something more than curiosity and lingering emotions kept him riveted in place, watching the man from across the courtyard.

John took a sip of his coffee and winced when it burned his lip. He turned it, gave it a moment, and tried again, slowly this time, managing to get a few sips before he lowered it and looked out over the courtyard again, keeping the cup clasped closely to his chest. It was as quiet as ever, yet still as beautiful as the last days he had been there. Weeks, actually. He lifted his head to look out over the city again before he went to sit by the waterfall. 

There was nothing to do but wait and think on these outings, and John felt the heaviness in his chest settle as soon as he did. The cold stone seeped into him and matched his insides perfectly. He was getting used to it, like a friend he remembered from long ago, newly back and awkwardly lingering, very likely there to stay. He breathed a sigh and looked out over the walk, just enjoying the still of the buildings, how they lit up with glowing yellow light and kept their students and theater goers safe and warm even though he waited out in the cold on Mycroft's request. 

Sherlock moved, as much to see John at different angles as to avoid any unnatural stillness that might draw attention. The sight of the doctor reopened a wound that had only just started to really heal. There wasn't any doubt in Sherlock's mind as to what this meant: Mycroft was here, most likely had been here for an indeterminate amount of time, and he'd brought along John Watson as bait. John's presense outside the Philharmonic meant that he was being strategically sent to places where he might encounter Sherlock, given Sherlock's personal tastes and habits. 

Sherlock had to admit it was a good strategy. Even now, he was having a difficult time wanting to leave. 

Except that if he stayed, John would eventually notice him. That was a confrontation he didn't want to have. The doctor would be hurt and accusatory, and rightfully so after everything that had happened. Sherlock bit down on his lower lip in frustration and, after one last look, moved away from the plaza and back towards the streets. A visit to the Opera would have to wait for another day.

* * *

John waited, and kept waiting, and only long hours after did he finally move to stand. He looked at his watch and then looked at the doors to the hall. Only the last of the late night students and practitioners remained, filtering through the doors every now and again. John idly wondered if they thought he was homeless. He wondered what they would think if they knew the truth, that he was waiting for a friend. Just like any one of the young couples meeting at the fountain. It was just that his friend had gotten lost somewhere along the way. He smiled to himself at the thought, bittersweet at the corner of his mouth, before he turned to catch the late bus. 

Another day back to the hotel with no news. 

Mycroft was arguing with someone on the phone when John returned. The conversation was terminated shortly after John walked in the door. Sherlock's brother listened to John or Greg's attempts to follow a normal schedule, and he'd begun to pick up a manic, sleep-deprived edge that John remembered so well. It was the same air that Sherlock used to get when working obsessively on a case without pause. "We have an issue. Moriarty just appeared with Sherlock on what _was_ a public video feed and issued, in essence, a declaration of war."

John's eyes widened at the door and it swung slowly shut behind him. He looked Mycroft up and down, mouth open. John was darting across the room in seconds. "What video feed? _Where?_ " His hands came down on the desk in front of Mycroft and John looked up at him with desperation. 

"There was a break-in at the Statue of Liberty earlier tonight." Mycroft's expression was pained; something about the situation bothered him, more than simply further proof that Sherlock and Moriarty were now working together. "Several security cameras were turned off to permit them to enter the monument without triggering a security response, but they didn't interfere with the cameras mounted at the top."

John's question was plain in his eyes, and Mycroft shook his head. "You're not going to want to see it. I would have preferred not to. What matters is that we know from observation that they're nearby, but may be planning to move soon now that they've put themselves into the public view. Or intended to - I've had the videos pulled, but Moriarty will be expecting that I'll see them sooner or later, along with the rest of the world that thinks Sherlock dead. Our timetable has advanced."

"Mycroft, _show me_." John didn't slam his hands into the table, but his shoulders tensed. Sherlock was out there, he and Moriarty had done _something_ and even if it upset Mycroft and most assuredly would upset John, John needed to see it. He needed to see more of Sherlock than a fuzzy surveillance image taken from halfway across an auction house in very low lighting. "I need to see him." 

Mycroft froze, hawkish features gazing down at John with a shuttered expression as he went unnaturally still. He must have realized that John wouldn't be moved on this, no matter what he said, as he finally nodded in assent. "Remember that I warned you." 

Mycroft crossed the room and opened the laptop that had been left resting on the sofa. He waited for John to take a seat before he opened up the video file and passed the computer over, then stood and gave John some space. He diverted his attention to his phone; while he wasn't willing to give John complete privacy by leaving him alone with the laptop and all of the data it contained, neither did he want to see John fall apart while viewing the material.

John took it, not knowing what to expect. From the way Mycroft was acting, he could barely imagine. Half of him wondered if he was about to see someone die. Whether Moriarty had dragged some poor soul up there only to throw him over. Or whether he had hurt Sherlock. John's hands froze over they trackpad. Dear god, he hoped Sherlock was ok. Feeling like he was initiating a death sentence, he moved the mouse over the video Mycroft had pulled up and clicked play. 

At first it was a feed of what John immediately recognized as the statue's flame. The camera must have been mounted somewhere on the railing because its lens managed to capture almost the whole thing. John waited and noticed that after a minute, it rotated slowly left and then right on its own. And then something in the back of the flame's base opened. A hatch. Gloved hands were coming through it and then the sleeves of a dark coat and then an unmistakable mop of dark hair when Sherlock pulled himself up. John gasped and held his breath. It was incredible. Unbelievable that he should be able to see Sherlock in such quality after so long. It was dark, the dead of night, but lights around the outer railing lit the flame from every side and Sherlock along with it. Another figure was pulling himself up behind Sherlock, and once again John recognized the face of Richard Brook, now Jim Moriarty, and he sobered a little, remembering Mycroft's warning. 

John's eyes narrowed as he watched Moriarty place a hand on the flame. They were talking, but there was no audio and John couldn't imagine what they were saying. Then he saw Moriarty turn to Sherlock and place his hand on his friend's cheek instead. John's brow furrowed deeper, a whisper of confusion fluttering through his mind. There was a look shared between them, something John couldn't decipher, but not unpleasant, and then Sherlock was pulling off his gloves and his hands were going to Moriarty's trousers, rucking up the shorter man's shirt and undoing the flies and…John's eyes widened in surprise. 

Moriarty was leaning in, his body language open and encouraging, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and they were nuzzling at one another, laughing, and Sherlock was stripping off Moriarty's trousers and John's stomach dropped. They were biting at each other, Sherlock's hands all over Moriarty, and then he was roughly pushing the smaller man into the base of the flame and pinning him there, lifting his bare thighs to wrap around Sherlock's waist, and John could tell from the look on Sherlock's face that he _liked_ it. John felt his world tilt sideways. He felt that he was making some kind of expression, his mouth was open, but all he could feel was horror. Sherlock slicked his fingers and his was grinning like John had never seen him before. He looked like a mirror of Moriarty, dark and sharp edged and ruthless as he moved his hand down and…John winced as he watched, until Sherlock's hand wasn't needed anymore and he caught a glimpse of Sherlock…Sherlock moving his open trousers down, taking himself in hand, and pushing into Moriarty, all the while admiring the way he did it, the way Moriarty's back arched and his grip tightened around Sherlock's torso, visible even under the heavy coat. 

They fucked like that, both of them wild things, lost in one another, barely caring for the cold or the pain or anything but the final climax. John felt tears streaming down his cheeks, but he couldn't move. 

John didn't make any sound, but he didn't need to. Mycroft could feel the tension and anguish radiating off John, even from across the room. He'd felt similar pain upon viewing the file. Not only had the content been something that he'd not cared to see, but the video had made it obvious just how far Moriarty's corruption had spread. Sherlock had fallen, far and quickly, and had a tell-tale gauntness to him and a redness around the eyes that suggested he'd started to engage in substance abuse again. Bruises had been visible on the necks of both men, also drawing into question whether physical abuse was a factor in the strange relationship that had been built between captor and captive. 

And still John didn't move. Mycroft glanced up from his phone to find the doctor with one hand covering his mouth. He looked to be deep in shock. Mycroft pocketed his phone and moved cautiously. He removed and closed the laptop as soon he got close, setting it aside. "John."

The doctor breathed out a long, shaky breath. He wouldn't meet Mycroft's eyes. He looked like he wanted to double over in shock and pain and sorrow and probably a very large amount of disbelief. He had _never_ seen Sherlock like that. None of them had. Sure he'd seen glimpses of how furious Sherlock could get, glimpses of a raw side of him that he never really let out in favor of keeping the perfect control, but never, _never_ sex. And never like that. John could never have imagined Sherlock having sex like that. He felt…he felt betrayed. He and Sherlock had never been like that, not even close, but…. Still, the unadulterated pleasure written into Sherlock's features, the way he pressed so close, so _lovingly_ , to Moriarty, kissing him with such passion…. Sherlock had betrayed them all with this, but John felt it like no one else. Fresh tears sprung to his eyes and he gripped Mycroft's sleeve. 

Alarm flickered across Mycroft's features. He'd comforted John several times since Sherlock had disappeared from their lives, but he still had little idea of exactly how to treat the doctor. After a second's hesitation he sat beside him. Another moment and he'd tentatively placed a hand on John's shoulder. "He's been using again, from the look of things, and captivity can do strange things to people. Particularly if abuse and manipulation techniques are involved."

John leaned into Mycroft's side, doing his best to, if not pull himself together, then at least stifle the knives in his chest from drawing anything more out of him. He had to grip onto some kind of hope, and Mycroft's words helped the lingering thoughts in the back of his mind, the ones that hadn't been destroyed by Sherlock's sordid and callous display. 

Sherlock had been forced into this. He'd been trapped. He had no way out. If he wasn't just playing along, then maybe he was losing himself bit by bit. He had no other option. 

John had noticed that he'd looked different, but he hadn't registered why. He thought it was the wind and the cold and the lights shining so brightly on Sherlock's face. He thought it was the fire and wanton boldness he'd displayed when he'd taken Moriarty. But now that John replayed it in his mind, he saw what Mycroft was talking about. And the bruises around their necks. 

John took a deep breath, wiping a hand over his face, swallowing down the rest of the churning inside him. "Yeah... Yeah." He could hold out hope that this didn't mean what he thought it might, that Sherlock wasn't completely lost to them. 

"You never saw him, before." Mycroft let go of John's shoulder but remained at his side. "At his worst, when he was nearly consumed with drugs, slowly killing everything he was. This situation is more complex, but it isn't without hope."

Hope hung by a thread, however. Mycroft knew from the footage that Moriarty had already started to alter his brother and significant ways, and the corruption would only spread and solidify the longer he was permitted to remain in the man's grasp. "We need to move quickly. I'm not quite finished with preparations, but from the look of things we no longer have time to spare. I don't want to permit Moriarty a chance to escape and end up chasing him around the globe while Sherlock deteriorates. Once we ascertain where they are hiding, my contacts will sever all the lines of Moriarty's web that we've managed to find while we move in."

John leaned back against the couch and took a deep breath, feeling this was nearly the last straw. For weeks they'd dug through crime reports trying to link them back to Moriarty, and the ones that they could, the ones that came even close - an unexplained double suicide in the Bronx, the decimation of a gang in Harlem, a mother and father inexplicably held for drug ransom, innumerable heists, one of them involving a collision at the subway station, killing dozens - they all showed signs of Sherlock's hand. Not standing by the sidelines, not simply going along with Moriarty's plans, active participation and destruction. Mycroft had recognized this, and he had told John as much. They'd even pulled Lestrade out of their baiting attempts, too nervous that his association with the police would ruin any chance of Sherlock coming out of hiding if he saw the former DI. It was up to John alone now, but with every passing day John couldn't believe what he was seeing. 

And then this. 

Sherlock wasn't simply helping Moriarty plan crimes. He wasn't doing it just for the escape from boredom anymore. With this new evidence come to light, John almost didn't want to know why he was doing it. 

The doctor's tawny head nodded sharply. "Right."

Mycroft frowned as he mentally reviewed a map of the city. John had been sent several places on a gamble that he might cross paths with Sherlock, but between the crime spree and this new footage... it was possible that it was wasted effort. Sherlock might not have enough of his old self left, much less the time, to indulge old passions and interests. 

"I still have a few locations I want you to scout. Rather than placing you where Sherlock might go, I want to focus on finding their base. This is going to be significantly more dangerous, as we don't have good ways of knowing who may or may not be an informant. I don't want to give up the element of surprise," Mycroft added. "But if you land in trouble, I'd prefer for you to retreat, rather than engage. At the point and given the strained status of my relationship with Sherlock, you stand the best chance of convincing him to stand down."

"Yeah. I can do that." John seemed more resolute at that. There was nothing he wanted more than to face Sherlock, even with the danger of Moriarty. The feeling was reckless, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He wouldn't have wanted to even if he could. He needed every ounce of determination to see this thing through, and to have any hope of bringing Sherlock back. 

And apart from all that…he needed to look into Sherlock's eyes and know if there was still an ounce of him there. He needed to understand why Sherlock had chosen to do what he was. And whether he had given up on John so easily. 

Mycroft retrieved the laptop again, this time summoning a map to the screen. It was a layout of New York city, but gridded and coded with different colors. "There are a few neighborhoods I've mapped out as being the optimal locations for Moriarty to choose a base, given several different factors. The mathematics of it aren't important for you to know, simply that the dark red areas are where I've calculated to be the most likely areas that we'll find them. I'm already having as much security footage pulled and reviewed as I can, but there isn't a CCTV system here to utilize. It's taking longer than I'd like."

"I need you to visit each of these spots. Look for anything suspicious. Try to flush Sherlock out if you happen to find him by himself, but don't take unnecessary risks. Don't get close if he's accompanied, and watch for signs of backup. Moriarty has employed snipers in the past."

John frowned. "That's a lot of red." Nearly all of Manhattan, concentrated around Central Park and lower in Battery Park City and Tribeca. John supposed he would have to start at the darkest areas first, but it would still take ages. He didn't see how the chances of Sherlock noticing him walking down the street were any better than what he'd been doing, unless Mycroft thought Sherlock wasn't leaving their hideout very much. Which, when John thought about it, was likely the case. As far as he could tell, news of the infamous master detective hadn't been big in America, but Sherlock was probably lying low. Still, he studied the map and made sure the bookmark was saved to his phone. "Least I'll get my walking in, then."

"Concentrate on the darkest areas first. I'm hoping to narrow down the areas even further as I get more data." Mycroft closed the laptop again with a sigh. "Nothing more to be done about it tonight. You should, if possible, endeavor to get some rest. We'll start first thing in the morning, and I'll need you alert."

For once, John didn't argue. "When Greg gets back tell him that I'm…well, just let him know that I've gone to bed. And I'll see you in the morning." He set the laptop down and moved off the couch. He didn't want to ask Mycroft to pretend John was ok when he had to tell Greg the news. They would all know better anyway. And there he was, still making pleasantries when he felt like his insides had rotted out and left a hole in their wake. One deeper than even he had thought possible. John looked at Mycroft when he straightened, just before turning to the bedroom, and imagined he saw some of himself in the other man's haunted expression.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock didn't return to the flat right away. Spotting John had left him even more shaken than when he'd left. Not only had Jim exposed him publicly, in every way, without permission, John was already here. Which meant Mycroft had already suspected their location and been in the city for an unknown period of time. John wouldn't have had the knowhow or means to track them down, and he'd never shown an interest in travelling to New York before.

Which meant that Mycroft brought him along as emotional leverage, bastard that he was.

Sherlock's cab dropped him a few blocks from the flat. He spent the walk back with his thoughts going in circles, disjointed from anxiety and the lingering effects of the drugs. He'd fully expected the living room to be empty when the lift doors opened, but-

There, on the couch, was a familiar form, curled up and still facing the windows even while unconscious. Sherlock was still angry, but something in him twisted painfully at the sight. He crossed the room and crouched beside the sofa, watching Jim for a moment before touching a hand to his shoulder.

Inky eyes opened slowly to meet him. Jim stared like he hadn't fully registered Sherlock was real, and perhaps he'd been dreaming about him. There was no doubt that he'd gone to sleep with Sherlock on his mind. His lips frowned and he reached out, touching his fingers to Sherlock's hand and keeping it close. His eyes pleaded for Sherlock to stay. 

Sherlock's breath left him in a sigh. He extracted his hand, only to slide his arms underneath Jim and lift him for the second time that night. His balance wobbled as he stood back up. "I'm still angry," he murmured. And he was, but he couldn't leave Jim out on the couch. Not tonight, not after all of his fears had sprung back to life in violent colors, leaving him feeling cornered.

Jim slung his arms around Sherlock's neck and let himself be hobbled off to the stairs, not doing very much to help besides keep his legs underneath him. He didn't say anything to contend with Sherlock's statement, a sign of his admonishment in itself, but his head hung against Sherlock's shoulder until they found the bed. He crawled in after the long limbed detective and laid down at Sherlock's side, his arms winding around Sherlock's torso, every stroke of his palms an apology. 

Sherlock wasn't in the mood to talk. Or think, for that matter. The day had taken a hefty toll, particularly when it had soured towards the end. The comfort of having Jim there, tangible and real, would have to do for the moment. Sherlock knew his current state, twined possessively around the smaller man, gave off an air of desperation, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

Jim's eyes were searching, but the detective wouldn't meet them. Eventually the dark head in Sherlock's arms bent to his neck and there Jim rested, unmoving. It was a small acquiescence, understanding that Sherlock wanted closeness without forgiveness, but Jim made it. Gradually he drifted back to sleep, his days old stubble a tickle on Sherlock's collarbone and the slow rise and fall of his chest a warm presence against Sherlock's side. 

Sherlock put his fear and anger aside for the moment and gradually followed Jim into unconsciousness. The smaller man's solid warmth in his arms and at his side did a great deal to soothe him, illogical as it was. Sherlock lost himself to a dreamless state and awoke to confusion. A bleary glance at the clock near his bedside stated that it was the early afternoon.

Jim was nowhere to be seen. But the blankets were still rumpled where he'd lain, even though they were tucked well around Sherlock. Faint sounds could be heard from the kitchen below, letting him know that Jim hadn't gone far. His familiar pacing tread over the tile floor, back and forth until he wandered into the living room. For a brief period, rapid typing replaced the footsteps before they began again. 

Sherlock started to sit up, only to abort the motion with a groan. His entire body felt tight and sore. A combination of the beating it had taken yesterday, combined with the ache that always set in once the drugs had worn off. It took another couple of tries to roll out of bed. After a bit of tentative stretching and a brief cleanup in the bathroom, Sherlock pulled on a fresh set of clothes and made his way down the stairs with slow, halting footsteps.

He found Jim bent over the keyboard of his laptop on the coffee table. When he noticed Sherlock, he looked up, typed one last response to whoever was on the other end of the screen, and straightened. Jim's eyes were all over him, assessing head to toe in quick succession what Sherlock's mood might be and why he was almost limping. Jim put the information aside as soon as he'd finished. "All's quiet on the Western front. We didn't even make the news. Which means your brother caught it first."

Sherlock nodded. "Are we leaving, or is it your plan to wait around until Mycroft sends mercenaries to our doorstep?" John flickered somewhere in the back of his mind, coffee cup in hand, the diligent soldier at his post - looking for Sherlock. 

It was a small comfort that Mycroft had stripped the video from the airways, preserving a modicum of his dignity. It nearly counterbalanced the horror of knowing one's brother had been put in the position of a voyeur, unwilling or no.

Jim snorted derisively. "Staying, of course. Until it becomes necessary that we move. And move again. And again. But not _leave_. That was the _point_." Jim's back straightened minutely. A defensive measure, hoping still that Sherlock would see what he was trying to do. Jim needed Sherlock's support. He'd gambled on it and had done so far too soon, but there was no way out now. 

"And what if you get cocky, Jim?" Sherlock growled. "What if he finds us and decides to just take you out? I don't want to find you with a bullet in your head because you decided to have a pissing contest with Mycroft." Just the thought made his throat tighten. " _Waiting_ for him to find us is not a good strategy, because he'll still have the element of surprise."

"Not while he's forced to move into a position outside of his element he won't. An ambush requires time - relocation, beginning the hunt. His first steps will be a broad, clumsy search in the dark until he can pick up a trail we've laid down. Don't you see? Forcing him to move when we're ready will put us in a _far_ better position than waiting for an ambush we don't know when to expect." Jim took a breath, pausing. "I need you with me."

"I'm with you. That should be obvious. I just..." Sherlock paused and ran a hand over his face, pushing his curls back from his forehead. " _I cannot risk losing you._ " Grey eyes searched Jim's face, pleading for him to understand the bone-deep terror - being forced to watch as he lost the person who now resided at the center of Sherlock's life.

Whatever Jim had been about to say died on his lips. For a moment he stood still, caught by the force of Sherlock's words as they hit him until his mouth closed and he really _looked_ at Sherlock. Jim exhaled softly and a slow, curving smile came over his face. The taint of their predicament weighed on it, but Jim only had ears for what Sherlock had said. 

"Nor I you." With measured steps, Jim moved to stand in front of Sherlock. "And that is why I will ask for your help in this, which," dark eyes closed as if pained, "believe me I do for no one, but I am asking you now, to help me escape your brother's grasp and false sense of omnipotence and give him a show he and the rest of the world will remember _forever_."

Sherlock gazed down at Jim, lost in thought. It was possible, perhaps, that the two of them could outmaneuver his brother. Mycroft had always been slightly cleverer, much to Sherlock's irritation, but Sherlock wasn't trying to outwit him alone. Two geniuses might manage where one alone would fail.

Sherlock answered with mouth and tongue instead of words, bending down to frame Jim's face with his hands before drawing him into a kiss. 

Jim's head tilted back and his spine arched as Sherlock pressed down but he pressed back in return, his body and expression opening to Sherlock instantly. Eager and bold, Jim kissed back, but not without a hesitance, a certain amount of care to be taken in making sure that Sherlock was with him. Movement for movement, Jim was reading him with his eyes closed. He must have liked what he was finding because bit by bit the tension in him unwound. 

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock was smiling slightly, for Jim's benefit more than anything else. It would take time to fully regain the trust that had been broken and for Sherlock to acclimate to the new situation. "Is there room in the schedule for lunch, or is the day to be dominated by planning for your grand, international spectacle?"

"Mm, I think we can fit lunch in." Jim didn't often think of meals as a dietary necessity. Though he enjoyed them immensely when he felt like being decadent, he also forgot them often enough to disregard Sherlock's own instances of neglecting them. His head rolled back and Jim smiled up at Sherlock, far too tall, and somehow Jim didn't mind. It fit him, and Sherlock was beautiful. 

Sherlock's smile widened slightly before a shadow flickered through his eyes and made it fade. "I'll also need time for an errand or two today." Jim was still watching him, and the smaller man easily plucked the truth from Sherlock's mind without him needing to utter another word: he was running low on drugs.

It didn't dampen Jim's expression as much as it could have. "You're going to have to switch to online transactions soon. Find a nice little drop point. Or better still, a runner. With your brother's attention on New York, face to face meetings will be a risk. He knows your habits." Jim's fingers smoothed up the seam of Sherlock's buttons. He might have been recalling what he'd said the last time Sherlock had shot up before they'd gone out. Sex at the very height of one of Sherlock's injections hadn't been a passing notion for Jim, especially when thus far Sherlock tended to hide away and keep to himself while he did it. 

Jim's touch had much the same effect on Sherlock; his pupils dilated as a distracting medley of images filled his mind. Residual anger or no, he still wasn't immune to Jim's many charms, nor his forceful personality. The criminal had sunk his hooks in deep. "I know. That's why I want to go now, before he has a chance to set any traps. If I get more than my usual amount, I'll have time to arrange for a new transactional method."

Mycroft would be watching online channels as well, but there were more ways of hiding purchasing patterns through the internet than there were with face-to-face exchanges.

The corners of Jim's mouth turned up knowingly. In his own subtle ways, he was testing the intensity of how much damage he had done, finding the boundaries of Sherlock's anger. 

"Good. Then we can spare an outing for lunch and a pleasant stroll down the sewage infested alleys of New York while we can. I dare say Mycroft won't waste any time hopping the pond." Jim's hand dropped, brushing along Sherlock's chest as he wandered off to his rooms. He left the door open while he changed, stripping off expensive clothing for a tshirt and jeans. 

Sherlock's gaze followed Jim as he moved. His body followed shortly thereafter, drawn towards the sight of bared skin as layers of cloth were stripped, piece by piece. With his shirt out of the way, the light hit Jim just so and made shadows pool in a tantalizing channel along his spine. Sherlock bit his lower lip to distract himself from the temptation to close the distance and follow that line. "Yes, I expect he won't."

Jim's small chin turned over his shoulder and when he smiled at Sherlock, the detective knew he'd been caught out. Dark lashes blinked slowly and the light fabric of the shirt came down over his head before he turned, letting it fall inch by inch down his slim torso and hang loosely at his belt. Jim walked up to Sherlock, his eyes traveling up the length of him until Jim's fingers found his chest again, this time pushing him back out the doorway. The boldness of his movements told of his gaining confidence in where Sherlock stood with him, as did the gleam in his eye. 

Jim's brows rose in an incongruous look of innocence while his thumb dropped to the dip in Sherlock's hip. "Best be on our way then."

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. He was in no shape at the moment for that particular addiction, and he'd wasted enough of the day by sleeping in. Every delay just gave Mycroft more time to sniff them out and pull more strings.

Or predict where he'd be and set John in his path. Sherlock hoped to catch another glimpse of the doctor, yearned for it, but at the same time... hoped that they wouldn't cross paths again. He didn't want John to see him like this, and he certainly didn't want Jim to get his hands on the former soldier. God only knew what he'd do to him.

Jim looked like he wanted to do more than enough to Sherlock at the moment, in an entirely different way. His pink tongue parted pale lips in a little swipe before he broke their gaze. He was rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck like the very presence of Sherlock was something he needed to snap himself out of as he made his way to grab keys, phone, coat, and with a twist of his heel and the crook of a finger, Jim was leading Sherlock into the lift. 

"What do you say we start in the park today? I'm in the mood for something low-key and I'd like to take advantage of the time we have." There, there would be food stands up and down the street, places Sherlock and Jim had dined often, whenever coming or going or when one of their heated discussions, on a scheme or otherwise, took them on a meandering walk.

Sherlock weighed the possibilities of being observed near the park, then nodded. "That sounds agreeable." Food truck wares wouldn't be high-class fare, but Sherlock wasn't particularly picky. Edibles weren't as high on his priority list as other things. Besides which, Jim was right - if they were going to have to keep to the shadows until danger passed, they wouldn't be able to afford the small pleasures of walking and observing all the shades of life that flowed around them.

At least not with the freedom of dress they enjoyed now. Sherlock certainly had the means and the skill to find himself a good disguise and move through the city unnoticed. Still Jim would have preferred his own face. Even in the uncharacteristic getup he wore now and had used as Rich, casual clothes giving him a disconcertingly sweet air, his face was still Jim. 

The doors pinged open and swiftly they moved through a group of tenants waiting for the lift. Pedestrians thronged the walk on the way to the park, the city in full swing by midday, and Jim and Sherlock kept pace with the crowd, parting clusters like water as the entered the park. 

Tension settled into Sherlock's shoulders. He walked closer to Jim than was his habit, eyes darting off into the crowds more than usual. He relaxed only slightly once they drew closer to the park and the crowds around the food stands. Between the foliage and the throngs of people, it would be more difficult for them to be spotted, whether by camera or the naked eye.

Sherlock caught sight of a familiar stand and, for a moment, was touched by a bit of nostalgia. He touched the small of Jim's back and nodded towards the vendor who'd sold food to Seb and himself only a handful of weeks ago. "There."

Jim's head turned and followed his eye. A breath of fog poured from his parted lips before he nodded and they turned toward the stand. A zesty spice caught the air, Mexican, and Jim's steps quickened, a sign that his body was more hungry than his mind had realized. The food was hot and delicious, and Jim wound up with a plate of more tacos than he probably knew what to do with by the way he tried to balance it with one hand and eat with the other. He seemed to approve. 

Sherlock amused himself by stealing morsels from Jim's plate, more to provoke a reaction out of the smaller man than anything else. He grinned when Jim tried to pay him back and he merely lifted his own plate out of reach. It earned him a jab in the ribs, but it was worth it. 

The City had a sense of unreality about it today. Sherlock knew that nothing had changed aside from his awareness of the fact that they were being hunted, but time crept along and shadows seemed to hover at the corners of his vision. He kept imagining John finding them, gaping in shock for a moment before he raised his gun.

Taking a seat at a pair of park benches and occupying only one, Jim's eyes lingered over him. "There is something different about you today." He swiped asada sauce from his thumb, sucking it before lifting the next bite to his mouth. "Do you already feel his presence weighing down on you so greatly?" Jim could read bits of him, he could catch and sync with minute expressions that passed across Sherlock's face, but without more data he could not put them together. 

Sherlock froze for a fraction of a second while he desperately tried to hide his thoughts. "I feel like he's already here," he answered truthfully. "That a gunfight is just around every corner. I keep seeing things that shouldn't be there." Sherlock took another bite to give himself another moment to think. "It's bringing back memories I'd rather not revisit."

Jim frowned, not catching Sherlock's meaning. "You're not talking about the recent trauma." Not what Jim had done to him, but old trauma. It was still enough to disguise Sherlock's discomfort. "You're worried about losing more of your family, aren't you?" Jim's voice was as dry as the air, as cold and detached. 

Sherlock ducked his head in assent. "I watched my father get shot. Seeing the violent death of one close family member was enough." Mycroft had turned into a controlling, aggravating bastard with no sense of privacy, in Sherlock's estimation, but that wasn't enough to counterbalance everything else and make Sherlock wish him dead. No matter how much he'd had such thoughts years ago in rehab. "If I forbid you to kill or harm him, directly or indirectly, would you even listen? Or would that be another decision you make against my will, _ostensibly_ for my own good?"

"Sherlock, you may not believe me, but I have no strong desire to kill your brother." Jim's lashes lowered. "I want him to _see_ you now. See what greatness you were all along. I want him to see _us_. And for that very purpose I need him alive, and to continue living until he understands this." Wafts of warm breath curled from Jim's lips as he sighed. "And I would listen, for your sake, in this one exception." 

"Only one?" Sherlock instantly latched onto Jim's particular phrasing. Equally distressing was the implication that Jim was quite comfortable with disregarding his opinions and requests the rest of the time. "And if my brother decides to be clever and attempt to bring some leverage, what then? I expect him to play dirty from the start. He always was overprotective and controlling."

Jim's head cocked and his eyes lifted to Sherlock. "Your brother is the only one who could hope to get close enough. I know you had _friends_ ," Jim's mouth twisted into a false smile at the word, but it was as cold as the rest, "but none with the resources to match him. And if he were to bring any one of them into this, they would be his pawns and you should treat them as such. They would have no other purpose." Jim still avoided John's name. Long lashes blinked and Jim's dark eyes narrowed in thought. "Is that what worries you? That he would use them?"

"I know he would. He'll use any opportunity he can get, including playing off any suspected emotions. Whether that means dragging my friends into this, or using old memories to manipulate me and throw me off balance." A muscle twitched in Sherlock's jaw despite his best attempts to school his features. Withdrawal pangs weren't beneficial to his self-control, particularly when under increased pressure. "He knows me well enough to know how to get under my skin."

Jim turned fully then, his eyes only for Sherlock. "And do you think you could go back to that life then? However much he 'gets under your skin'?" One sleek brow rose and the turbulence behind Jim's carefully controlled visage nearly became visible. "If you can answer that, then you'll know whether he could get to you or not."

Sherlock didn't know, and Jim must have seen it in his eyes. He was still only beginning to adjust to his new life, even with the strides he'd been making. His old life was beginning to seem appalling, with the tedium between cases and the way he ran intellectual circles around all of his peers. It seemed pointless to even contemplate whether a return was possible; Jim would never stand for it, and Sherlock refused to leave him. "I'm not going back."

Jim's mouth lifted. "Good." His gaze lingered on Sherlock, studying still, but the ice around him was beginning to thaw. He lifted himself from the bench and shoved his hands in his coat pockets, keeping them out of the cold. "Go find what you need. Then we'll begin preparations."

Sherlock nodded and stood. "I should be back in a few hours. This time of day, it's going to take a bit of maneuvering to contact dealers with the right compounds who are also open for business. Let me know if anything crops up and I need to avoid certain routes back home."

Jim brightened minutely. Sherlock said 'home'. "Hurry. We can expect him soon." 

Jim knew it wouldn't take Mycroft long to cross the Atlantic, if he hadn't already left. It would take even less time for him to send an operative to scout New York before he even arrived. There were sure to be parties already searching if not Mycroft himself. 

Jim didn't need to tell Sherlock to be careful. They both knew the game would change if Mycroft managed to snatch him off the streets. Jim had promised not to harm his brother, but Sherlock wasn't so certain he'd keep that promise if Mycroft was holding him prisoner.

Sherlock bent to press their lips together in one last, brief kiss before he walked away. In the weeks since they'd arrived, he'd learned more about which sources were reputable, who carried what, which names to drop in order to get access to the human network. It was only a short cab ride to 42nd and 8th, then a brisk walk to the right block of flats. 

Sherlock must have looked more the part of the junkie than he'd thought. None of the doormen took him as an undercover cop, nor thought it was highly unusual for him to want to make a purchase in the middle of the day. Clearly, they took him to be an addict running on empty. After a short amount of negotiation and a few raised brows over quantities purchased and cash on hand, Sherlock left the building with pockets full of supplies.

* * *

John had left their hotel early that morning in hopes of getting a head start. Not too early - he knew Sherlock didn't often wake until just before noon. But then he had to take into account how drastically Sherlock's schedule might have changed. If what Mycroft had strongly suggested was true, Sherlock would likely be running on Moriarty's schedule, if they even had a schedule at all. And since the leak of the video, they'd be expecting Mycroft. John had to reason that there was no way he could possibly predict where Sherlock would be and when, he simply had enough hours in the day to begin walking the streets and trying not to hope so fiercely that it crushed his insides. 

He'd started near Central Park East side, as good a place as any since the hotel was close by and it was one of the hottest spots on Mycroft's map. First the Park itself and then making consecutive walks up and down the streets. It wasn't a good way to pass the time. Walking and wishing for a miracle was a good way of letting the ever growing feeling of hopelessness sink in, but it was a far sight better than sitting in one spot and waiting for the same miracle. 

Eventually, he made his way farther and farther south, walking all the way to Times Square just to see it and thinking of heading toward Lower Manhattan and the financial district next. He'd have to catch a cab.

Sherlock was lost in thought, mind more occupied with puzzling out how to navigate this latest maze of traps and pitfalls than it should have been. Walking the streets and watching for a cab to take him back to the safety of Jim's flat, it took him a few seconds to process a vague sense of alarm and take a sharp look at his surroundings.

What he saw made him freeze in mid-step, mind grinding to a halt with his body. John's familiar frame was striding down the street toward him at a steady pace. Panic and confusion filled him, wondering if the doctor was a hallucination from withdrawal or whether this meant Mycroft had already tracked him down.

John glanced up and Sherlock started running.

The shock in the doctor's blue eyes registered for a split second before John was behind him again. Shouting came next, John's familiar voice down the walk, pushing through the crowd and hurtling after Sherlock. He called Sherlock's name over and over with a note of panic, of desperation, that Sherlock had never heard on one of their cases. 

John was losing him. Sherlock's legs were too long and he'd been too far away from the start. He was only a dark mop of hair, just visible rushing through the crowd nearly a block ahead, and then darting through traffic. John followed, hoping and praying his legs could keep up as he jumped headlong into the street to follow, heart pounding in his chest. 

" _Sherlock! Wait! Please!_ "

Sherlock was driven by more than desperation. Fear and shame mingled in his veins. He couldn't face John - not now, perhaps not ever again. He tore down the street and used every trick he could remember from the old days of running from the cops: using road traffic to his advantage, ducking around groups of people, utilizing narrow alleyways and fire escapes to gain access to places beyond reach.

John's cries hounded him and cut him like a knife. Even after he was certain he'd lost the doctor, Sherlock kept running. He could still hear echoes of John's voice, if only in memory.

John lost him somewhere on 9th Ave. Just on the edge of Hell's Kitchen Sherlock disappeared. John kept running, up the avenue, down it, turning this way and that with fear sinking into his heart. _He'd seen Sherlock._ He swept his hands over his face, trying to think, trying to think _like Sherlock_ , if there was any way he could catch him. Any way to find where he'd gone. A trickle of panic ran down his spine. _Sherlock had run from him._ The look of terror on Sherlock's pale face just before he'd turned was burned into John's eyes and he scrubbed at them, trying to _think_. 

Quickly, John got out his phone and dialed Mycroft. 

Sherlock was already texting Jim as he moved, continuing to put distance between himself and John. There was no telling what Mycroft had access to at this point. New York City didn't have a public CCTV layout to memorize and easily avoid. All he could do was try to keep low and get under cover before Mycroft caught him on-feed and started tracking.

That was, if John hadn't been a hallucination.

_Saw John Watson on the street. Was spotted, lost him. Coming back now -SH_

A text came back to him within seconds. 

_Tell me your location. A car is on the way._

Blocks away John was panicking. Every second the phone rang was more distance between himself and Sherlock. When Mycroft's voice sounded on the other end, John nearly doubled over in relief. "Mycroft, I saw him. _I saw him._ On the street, just blocks ahead. But I lost him." John whirled, looking for a cross street. "9th and 48th. _He ran._ "

"Give me a moment, John." The clicking of a keyboard could be heard through the mobile. A sighting with accurate time and place data was extremely valuable. Even if Sherlock manage to slip away for the moment, this would narrow down the focus area of their search. "I'm going to see if I can find him with what security feeds I have available. I need you to stay calm. What direction was he heading when you lost him?"

"North, but he was all over the place. He'd go down a block, and then through the alley, I don't know if he was trying to lead me off, or, or what." John stared at the last place he'd seen Sherlock, vaulting over two dumpsters in the back of an old restaurant before he broke his gaze and looked to the sky. " _Goddamn._ "

"John, I'm going to keep looking, but it's highly likely that we've lost him for now. I may be able to see where he went and track him once I get more feeds." Mycroft sounded displeased with the outcome, but there was little that could be done at the moment. "I'm going to send some officers your way. That neighborhood has a reputation in the drug trade. I need you to go with the police and work with them. Find out who he talked to, if he bought anything, and how."

John nodded even though he didn't think Mycroft could see him. "Alright. I'll give you a call back if we find anything." He ended the call, took a deep breath, and waited for the police. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, texted the nearby cross-street back to Jim. It was an agonizing few minutes, keeping to the shadows and praying that he wasn't showing up on a hidden camera. His heart was lodged in his throat.

Every minute Sherlock waited was one more that Mycroft could be gaining on him, and he was forced to wait several before a sleek silver Jaguar careened around the corner. The back door flew open and, surprisingly, Jim himself leaned out, ushering him inside quickly. When the door was slammed shut behind the soles of Sherlock's shoes, they were off again, their driver taking them in the opposite direction Sherlock had come. 

" _Shit_. How the fuck did they find you so fast?" Jim did not look pleased, but the question was directed at thin air more than it was at Sherlock, and that was understandable. There should have been no way other than pure coincidence that Mycroft could have collected John, hopped the Atlantic, and begun searching so close to their base after barely twelve hours of headway. 

"John looked shocked to see me. I don't think they knew where to look." Sherlock swore under his breath. John would report what he saw to Mycroft, and Mycroft would round up for questioning all the dealers within a few blocks of where he was seen. They wouldn't be safe to buy from anymore, and he'd begin to watch as many other distributors as he could find. "I had thought going someplace within the heart of downtown would be less of a risk than going to one of the poorer neighborhoods."

Jim hissed. Sherlock's logic was not faulty, but… "We missed something. That kind of coincidence doesn't just _happen_. And there have been _no flights_ over the Atlantic within the past twelve hours that could have possibly carried your brother and former flatmate. _Not one._ I've been monitoring air traffic from the moment surveillance caught us." Jim flung himself back into his seat with a huff of displeasure. The cogs were working at maximum speed behind his narrowed eyes, and his mouth molded into a scowl. 

They were at least making good headway through the city. Their car blended with traffic and the windows made them nearly invisible to the outside world. 

"Which means Mycroft already knew we were here." Scenarios ran through Sherlock's mind. How many public places had he been in the last few weeks? How had Mycroft caught onto him with as many people as the city housed? They'd become bolder with their latest jobs, but Sherlock didn't think an uptick in crime alone would be enough. 

The poisoning job at dinner was too recent, which meant it had to have been something else that would have had a public spotlight. "...what about the jewelry heist? I wasn't in the building when Seb made his move, but that was notable enough to get international attention from the arts and antiquities world." And he'd been on camera at least part of the night.

" _Yes_." Jim's eyes closed and he stilled. "Which means he's _been_ here ever since." Jim's lip curled, reluctantly admiring. "Oh dear Sherlock…" he cooed, "I daresay if I hadn't called your brother out to play, he might have gotten the jump on us after all." Still he frowned, even though he was right. Jim was used to being right. 

Mycroft hadn't come for them at the flat yet, which meant that he hadn't managed to track them back there thus far. Every trip outside had been a risk, and they'd been completely unaware of the fact. "We have to be more careful. He now has a sighting to start with, and he'll be cleaning out the dealers I just talked to even as we speak. I won't be able to buy from any dealer in the city from now on, regardless of whether the transaction is in person or not."

Jim waved his hand. "Doesn't matter. An anonymous transaction with a drop point and a bit of hired help would solve that problem. We, however, won't be going out into visible areas without a good disguise from now on. At least not within the city limits." Dark eyes fixed themselves on Sherlock. "This does ramp up the timeline for our plans. It's time to run amok." The mischievous half smile was back. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. While the pace and intensity of the jobs Jim gave him had increased over time, they'd not discussed anything like an endgame. Sherlock had been content to stay in the dream world, where they simply traveled the globe and did whatever took their fancy without a thought to the consequences. He could feel a pressure between his shoulder blades; the same sensation he used to get whenever John had disapproved of something he'd done or said and was frowning at him. "I had thought we were doing that already."

Jim cocked his head. "With clever heists and killings?" His smile spread. "No, Sherlock, I want the world to know our names. I want your brother and anyone who thinks they can bring us down to know the destruction we will reign on their soil." Jim sat up, moving into Sherlock's space, fingering the cloth of his shirt and coming so, so close. "I want to burn the precious worlds they've built and leave them to watch us do it. This is about us, it's always been about us. This is _our_ playground, not theirs." 

Sherlock's life had been spiraling out of control for weeks now, but he could feel another lurch as he approached another precipice, one more fall. He hadn't cared about the strangers who'd been caught in the crossfire. They hadn't seemed real to him. Promises or no, escalation was only going to end in deaths of people who Sherlock _did_ value and care about. "Only enough to make him back off."

Jim lifted his head to study Sherlock. His searching eyes followed the threads of Sherlock's hesitation relentlessly, but for Jim it was difficult to see where they ended. He pressed himself close as the car swayed in a turn. He climbed up on his knees so that he could swing a leg on the other side of Sherlock's thighs and get even closer, savoring the feel of Sherlock when he'd been so close to the reaches of his brother. "Why are you so reluctant?" 

"Because this won't end well if pushed too far. Every time I've seen Mycroft pushed, whether by extended family members or other organized groups that want to move in on what he considers his, the offenders get broken or killed. He never does it directly, from what I can tell, but people end up dead, missing, or without the spirit to fight anymore." Sherlock finally met Jim's gaze. "If we escalate this past a certain point, it will only end when one side has killed or captured the other."

"I do intend to capture your brother. In a way. I don't intend to take his life, but he will watch as helplessly as the rest of them while we rise. His power and his persistence enable him to make such people disappear. If he persists in attempting it with me, I intend to strip him of the power he has. And no, it will not be _easy_ or _pretty_ , but I will not settle for less. He can hunt me for years if he likes. I might even enjoy it." Jim's hands splayed over Sherlock's chest. His face reflected some of Sherlock back at himself, a bittersweet tinge to the edges of him. 

"I'm afraid. Of losing." One way or another, even if he technically won. Sherlock had taken careless gambles before, made foolish decisions, because he had very little to lose. That had been before he'd found a friend, and before he'd found... whatever Jim was. His match. "It feels much the same as the night I spent before the bridge, knowing something terrible was coming and that I was powerless to change it."

"What would you have me do?" Jim closed his eyes, the picture of serenity before his brows scrunched and his nose wrinkled as though his thoughts were a manifestation of physical pain. "I cannot live in stagnation." 

Jim bent his head and pressed it to Sherlock's neck. The heat of him was one quivering mass in Sherlock's lap. The fight in him strained against the very walls of his flesh, and for the moment he was forcibly containing himself within Sherlock's space. 

Sherlock's arms wrapped around him. "I don't know," he admitted. "I haven't found the way out yet." Mycroft might be corruptible, with the right pressure. It would take great effort, after all the psychological walls he'd put in place, but not entirely impossible given enough time. John, however...

John would bend, but only so far. He'd break if he was pushed past the boundaries he held dear. He'd become someone else entirely. Sherlock wasn't certain he could accept that. 

"No one ever gets to me, Sherlock. Not even your brother. One way or another, he'll learn." Jim's cold nose nudged Sherlock's neck and the car pulled to a stop, idling in a nameless parking garage and waiting for them to depart. Jim didn't move at first. His muscles were tense, his body tight against Sherlock. And then he lifted his head and the energy he'd been fighting to hold back was in place again. Cool control washed over his features and he reached for the door handle. 

"I got to you," Sherlock pointed out, and immediately regretted it. Black eyes turned back in his direction, full of tension and heat again. Sherlock squared his shoulders instead of flinching. He shouldn't be _afraid_ of Jim. "You know it's true." And inexorably, it followed that if someone could get to Sherlock, they'd get to Jim by extension.

Jim's eyes narrowed, his mind whirring. "So you did. But you… You were already me. You were from the moment our minds met across the distance of a crime scene." But Jim saw where Sherlock's train of thought was going and he paused with his hand on the door. "Since this is the case, I need you now to be the same. For both our sakes."

"I cannot promise that." Only a few other people besides Jim and Sebastian held any amount of sway over Sherlock, and now at least two of them were present in New York City. Sherlock found that emotional bonds, once formed, were incredibly difficult for him to cut. It was one of the reasons he tended to do what he could to keep himself detached. "I will try, but I would be lying if I told you I could separate myself from my attachments."

Jim hissed and pushed the door open, climbing off Sherlock to get out. Once awash with the warm air of a heated garage, he smoothed the front of his shirt, almost forgetting that he wasn't wearing a suit, and scowled further. "Now that your brother had inconveniently had the time to set up operations for weeks, we'll need to find his base as well. General location at best. I need to know if our flat's been compromised. We'll have to stay here for a few days. Battery Park City, I hope you like it." 

Sherlock stared at Jim for a moment before following him out of the car. He'd expected a sudden move in order to shake Mycroft off the trail. He hadn't expected Jim's temper. Stress was clearly getting to both of them, but that knowledge did nothing to alleviate the souring of his own mood. "I'll have to live with it whether I like it or not. Just like everything else," he muttered.

Jim's scowl deepened. But he cracked his neck and started moving briskly for the exit. "I've sent for Sebastian. He'll be scouting the area and then on his way." He found a lift and had to wait several paces for Sherlock to join him. Their driver left without a word as the doors closed. 

The lift took them straight into a tower, half business, half luxury apartments on the upper floors. Jim had a key code for the very top which turned out to be a spacious apartment. If not as meticulously furnished to their specific tastes, it was luxurious nevertheless with arched white ceilings and dark, bold furniture laid out in a theme of elegant contrast throughout the rooms. 

It was cold and lifeless. Sherlock was reminded of model flats put on display to entire tenants, or the echoing summer houses of his family - all the carefully chosen finery covered in a thin layer of dust, the ghosts of the empty part of the year clinging to the premises no matter how much they cleaned or how many parties they threw.

His violin and Eli remained at the other flat, which meant he had little in the way of private emotional vents. There were the substances in his pocket... and Jim. Jim, who still was radiating his displeasure.

Sherlock slid his hands over Jim's shoulders while he analyzed the layout of the flat. He guessed the direction of the bedrooms and began to steer the smaller man toward his chosen hallway. Sherlock wanted to unwind the tension coiling in him, wanted to forget. Particularly the panicked look on John's face and his heartbreaking cries.

Jim's head turned over his shoulder as they moved through the apartment, glancing at Sherlock with a gaze that didn't take long to catch on and then there was a coy fluttering of his lashes before he let Sherlock move him all the way to the bedroom. Much like the rest of the apartment, it was a pristine and whitewashed gallery of decadent linens. Jim was turning in Sherlock's arms before the back of his knees unexpectedly hit the bed and he went down, surprise on his face. 

Sherlock climbed over him and had him pinned in a heartbeat, fingers curled around slender wrists. "I have an idea," he purred, adopting a suitably flirtatious demeanor in the hopes of winning Jim over. "We're both angry and stressed, but we have time to plan the next move once Seb reports back. So..."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, sizing Jim up. "We need to unwind a little. You made a suggestion about what you wanted to do the next time, but I propose... that we try it together. You were very focused the last time I gave you a taste."

Jim's brow rose and his head cocked in return, He wasn't one to run and hide in a haze of chemicals when the game was on, but what Sherlock was proposing held a certain allure. He'd most certainly wanted Sherlock in that way, unwound and unrestrained, open and uncaring, but experiencing such a state _with_ Sherlock…. Residual frustration melted off Jim like water, giving way first to a calculating consideration - would they have enough time, as Sherlock estimated? yes - and then to open interest. Jim's eyes narrowed and the beginnings of a smirk curved his upper lip. "Proposition accepted." 

Sherlock's mouth curled in a reflection of Jim's expression before he leaned down to kiss him. Jim was always so in control, even when projecting wild abandon. Sherlock was curious what would happen if those iron controls were temporarily disabled, particularly in the throes of desire. He rolled off the smaller man to let him up and retrieved the fresh supplies from his pockets. "I'm assuming you have the other requirements here? Or will we have to improvise?"

Jim dug his shoulders into the sheets and laid his head back in a show of getting overly comfortable. The smirk on his lips widened and his eyes drifted closed. "My apartments are always well stocked. Check the bathroom." 

When Sherlock did and returned with the bottle of lube, Jim was up on his stomach, propped on his elbows with his head hanging low between his shoulders and staring at Sherlock intently. 

Sherlock set the bottle and a small towel down on the nightstand and paused to admire the view. Aggravating as Jim could be at times, he pulled at Sherlock even then. It didn't dissolve his concerns but the sight solidified his resolve. He wanted this. He wanted to keep this, and he'd keep selling pieces of his soul to make it so.

Sherlock fell on Jim as if starved, fingers working at the fastenings of his clothing in hasty desperation. Nothing mattered but the moment right then. Sherlock was going to sink into a dream and temporarily forget about everything else, and Jim was going to come with him.

Jim's small body writhed beneath him, helping to shed his jeans and kick off his shoes. The thin fabric of his shirt went over his head and Jim was naked under Sherlock only moments later, thighs pressed tightly on either side of Sherlock's hips, still clothed and pressing hard against him with the edges of his belt and the rough slide of material. Jim bared his teeth, but he seemed to delight in the uncommon situation because he pulled Sherlock down and again their mouths met roughly, teeth clacking together and Jim's hands winding in his belt before pulling it off. 

Sherlock raked his nails down newly bared skin and watched the lines slowly gain contrast. The bruises ringing Jim's throat were stark against his natural paleness. Sherlock quickly unbuttoned his own shirt and slid it off to reveal his matching collar, delighting in the way Jim's eyes lit up and followed his every move. Sherlock didn't want to move off of the smaller man, resulting in a brief struggle when they tried to work his trousers off and stay entangled with each other at the same time. Soon enough they were only left with skin against skin, and Sherlock slid against Jim in a slow tease, grinning all the while. "You'll have to let me up for a minute if you want to try this."

One of Jim's hands was in his hair, the other wrapped around his back and kneading his arse, pulling Sherlock's hips into him while Jim rapidly hardened. A hissing growl escaped the criminal's throat and only after several more licks and bites at Sherlock's mouth did Jim let him up, hands trailing down the long planes of Sherlock's back as he moved for his kit. 

Jim stayed where he was, naked on the bed, legs entwined with Sherlock as if ready to catch him should he try to slip away. Still there was a hint of wariness in Jim's dark eyes, one only Sherlock could have seen and it warned him clearly that when Sherlock gave him the injection, Jim would fight for control. It was his nature. 

Sherlock prepared two syringes at once, carefully measuring out a smaller dose for Jim and swiping alcohol pads across their arms. Knowing he had a fight ahead of him, Sherlock administered his own first and set the needle aside. He had to move more carefully as the first wave of the drug hit his system. He bent down to claim Jim's lips one more time, and then the second needle was under Jim's skin. Sherlock tossed the used syringe away and twined around Jim's smaller body in anticipation.

Goosebumps hit Jim's flesh first, popping up everywhere they were in contact. A second later Jim reeled back, mouth and eyes shooting open, tensing under Sherlock. And then suddenly he was boneless. Every muscle that had been keeping him pressed against Sherlock loosened and Jim slumped into the downy blankets around them, mouth still open, eyes unfocused somewhere at the edges of Sherlock's curls. He didn't say anything. It took him nearly a full minute to even look at Sherlock, and when he did it was slow, the very movement of his eyes languid as the ink they resembled, and Jim looked straight through him. 

Sherlock gave him a knowing smile. "It's an odd sensation if you don't have experience with it," he murmured. Jim's face looked softer somehow. No sooner had the thought occurred than his hand moved of it's own accord, stroking through dark hair down to the mottling on Jim's neck. "It always reminded me a bit of floating in a pool. Quiet, weightless." 

A small frown creased Sherlock's brow. Jim still was unfocused. "Are you still with me?"

Jim looked at Sherlock like he was an anomaly. His mouth pursed, paused, and then finally he spoke. "I hear you, but you might as well be a thought…one solitary strand of imagination." Jim's head tilted the other way, considering the reality of Sherlock and the warmth of his arms and body above Jim. Sherlock was a black hole, full of warmth and nothingness. The same nothingness that was already inside Jim had trickled through Sherlock's veins and made his heart pump and drowned his body in…space. Nothing but the vacuum of space, strangely warm, and strangely peaceful, where life began and where life ended, where all things lived…somewhere far off in the distance where they couldn't touch the pair. Jim's head cocked the other way, his mind catching on that train of thought for the strangeness that it was before it unraveled again. 

"You feel detached and relaxed, but you can still feel. Focus." Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and let his other hand drift between them and wrap around both of their lengths. "Let everything else go and just be here."

Sherlock watched Jim's gaze flicker again. Even through the haze, he could tell that something was off. This wasn't the reaction he'd remembered from Jim before. His lover didn't seem distressed, but neither did he seem overly pleased with the dissociation and loss of control. Sherlock's hand slid around them in a steady rhythm, trying to use pleasure to give Jim something to fixate on so he wouldn't stay lost in the nothingness.

It threatened in a way little else had before. It should have been welcome, the haze and contentment, the feeling that nothing could touch them, but Jim knew they were not dead. The world was still present around them, the one that was meant to be fought and dominated and railed against, but Jim could not bring himself to care. Like a feedback loop in the very back of his dazed mind, a part of him screamed to wake up, surfacing for fractions of a second before it was submerged in the feeling of absolute safety. Safety that Jim knew, somewhere in his rational mind, was all an illusion. Jim's heavy eyelids fought to stay open and he let out a little gasp. Sherlock's palm on him was a fixed point. A focus in a world of disassociation, and Jim reached out and clung to the back of Sherlock's neck, seeking more. He hissed and there was something off about the pitch to his voice, but he was lifting himself and climbing over Sherlock in a haze of bliss and the dull need to hold on. 

Sherlock turned onto his back, never letting his gaze leave the smaller man. Sherlock had thought Jim was merely uncomfortable with temporarily losing his hold, but the loss of control now seemed to be distressing. Jim should have been relaxed and drowning in a sense of well-being, not on the verge of panic because he couldn't force his senses back to normal through sheer will. "Jim, what's wrong?"

"Just need…," Jim panted. The bit of his rational mind that was left was fighting the drug, sending his expression in and out of a hazy bliss. "You feel _so good_." Jim pressed his hands to Sherlock's chest and pressed his still stiff cock against Sherlock's, encouraging him to stroke again. Languidly, his head tilted back and Jim sighed, nearly forgetting to thrust his hips to help the friction. "I can't seem to bring myself to care about anything right now…" His head oscillated back and forth like he were trying to figure out how best to describe how that could possibly be a problem. 

"You're not used to it." Perhaps it was scaring Jim, on some level, making him feel more defenseless instead of more secure. Sherlock's fingertips slid down the length of Jim's spine, coaxing a shiver out of him before he took them in hand again. "Just relax. We're here together, safe, hidden, and it will wear off by the time we need to plan again."

Jim still rocked from side to side. Sherlock gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down, closer, enough to touch their foreheads together. 

Jim's eyes immediately closed and his body stilled at the familiar press. Gradually, he breathed out. His limbs, uncoordinated before, melted into Sherlock below him and finally, _finally_ , his mind began to relax in full. Sherlock was warmth, Sherlock was pale skin and dark hair and eyes that Jim had seen a thousand times in his memory, Sherlock could not hurt him and neither could anything else, but he didn't need drugs to tell him that. Most importantly, Sherlock appealed to reason, and Jim had needed just that much. 

Sherlock sighed in relief as he felt the tension slowly bleed out of Jim. As languid as the man's movements could be at times, Sherlock couldn't recall him ever feeling quite this boneless, even in his sleep. "Jim, look at me. Remember why you agreed to try this in the first place. Nothing else matters, so nothing else can distract you." Sherlock arched his hips and slid against Jim, then smiled when he received a grunt in response. 

Dark eyes flicked open and he was met with Jim's lazy, curling smile. "One track mind, you have," the criminal chided, but his breath hitched when Sherlock did it again. Jim would need to be kept in the moment, but once he was there, he responded in full. Stretching himself along the length of Sherlock's body, Jim ground down against him without much accuracy or coordination. He got the hang of it after a moment, pace slow, drawn out like he expected it to last forever. 

"You know that's not true," Sherlock teased back. "I multitask constantly. Some subjects are simply worth my undivided attention." Like all the little signs that breathed life into Jim's body, electric-hot and more than human. Analyzing the intricate, interwoven threads of Jim's thoughts, or at least the ones he could see drifting just beneath the surface, beautiful and complex, patterns within patterns. His music, when he let himself relax his hold on conscious thought and permitted the rest of himself to bleed out into aural form. "I know you agree, or you wouldn't have spent years haunting my footsteps and waiting to steal me away."

A melodious chuckle met him at that, and Sherlock felt a tremble run down Jim's spine. A warm tongue drew up Sherlock's neck, and Jim took his time laving at the dips in his skin and the protrusion of tendons until he reached Sherlock's jaw. Every move he made now was intense with focus. As were his eyes, heavy lidded as they were, smug and content, when staring down at Sherlock. "And aren't you glad I did?" 

Sherlock's brain took a moment to catch up, nerves still reverberating from where Jim's mouth had played him like an instrument. Sherlock glanced up and nearly lost himself, peering through Jim's eyes into the dark spaces behind them. His throat felt too tight to breathe, let alone speak. "Very." Jim had broken things and cracked him open in the process, but the holes had been filled with new pieces and the jagged edges clothed in a new form.

"I knew you would," Jim whispered and pushed himself to his knees, hands diving recklessly about the sheets, searching until he found the bottle of lubricant Sherlock brought. He leaned back and with a devilish smile, trapped Sherlock's length between them, rolling his hips in slow motion while he opened the bottle and poured the liquid over his hand. Jim's movements had a fuzzy edge around them, so content that he wanted to enjoy every sensation to its fullest. It slowed his usual pace down by drastic degrees. 

Even slower, Jim was no less intense. An adagio or a largo, rather than an allegro, still hitting all the strings and leaving Sherlock's body trembling in his wake. Sherlock arched up against the friction and Jim's quiet laughter filled his ears. He couldn't stop himself from jerking at the cold touch of gel, which only seemed to provoke more amusement from his lover. "Enjoying yourself?"

Jim huffed another laugh that turned into a breathy keening sound and slumped over Sherlock, barely managing to catch himself with one arm beside a head of dark curls. How close they were then, eyes locked together, breath mingled while Jim was reaching behind himself. Liquid, warmed with Jim's hands, ran down Sherlock's length and suddenly Jim was lifting and lowering and stretching around Sherlock with his mouth agape at the sensation. "Oh, _oh yes_."

Sherlock's hands slid to Jim's hips, steading him and pulling him down until they were flush against one another. There was something akin to childlike wonder and adoration in Sherlock's features, but for the sheer lust that burned beneath the surface. He didn't quite know what was more pleasurable - the physical sensation of lifting Jim up only to bury himself again, or the reactions it provoked in his lover. 

" _Sherlock,_ " Jim gasped in awe. His hands cupped Sherlock's face and a mirror of wonderment began to form in Jim. He brushed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead and let it fall back in place just to see the expression on Sherlock's face while his hips lifted and sank in rhythmic motion. So very slowly Jim moved that he could feel every inch of Sherlock inside him. He couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock, so beautiful, so open, so unguarded he was in this that it called to visions of him deep in Jim's memory. It coalesced in his gut like warmth, the lust between them driving it, and Jim grinned wide before he dove down and caught Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's tongue darted out for a taste, fucking Jim's mouth until Jim nipped at him. Limbs twined around one another, each of them fighting to get closer and slip into one another's skin. Jim looked so pleased, so extraordinarily joyful that it pulled at Sherlock until it was just shy of pain. Sherlock wanted more of this, to keep Jim more than just content, but _happy_. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had such an unselfish impulse. Sherlock thrust up sharply, and the look that earned him only gave him motivation to do it again.

Jim threw his head back and his shoulders followed. He lifted himself up to drive himself down again, impaling himself over and over without any hint of pain. He leaned back, catching himself with his hands and looked down at Sherlock, letting the spark build between them until he couldn't hold back anymore and fell over Sherlock again. They pressed together everywhere. Jim's hands grabbed Sherlock's and his thighs tightened against Sherlock's sides. He pressed himself chest to chest with the taller man, so close that it was nearly difficult to keep up their motion. 

The world was far away from them then. Neither worried about holding onto the moment, desperate to enjoy it while it lasted. As far as they were concerned, it would last forever. 

Sherlock buried his face against Jim's neck and breathed him in. He tensed without warning and rolled them over. Jim didn't have long to protest - Sherlock reached between them and began to stroke Jim's cock in time, rewarded when his lover's eyes momentarily lost their focus from the sensation. "You look glorious, just like that," he whispered. "I want to overwhelm you. Drown out every thought until I'm all that's there."

Jim looked up at him, dazed with half lidded eyes and mouth parted just so. 

"Yes," Jim breathed between pointed thrusts. " _Please._ " Jim's thighs hitched up, driving up into Sherlock's hand while Sherlock drove into him from above. He clutched at Sherlock's wide shoulders. They moved with a slow, driving tension building inside them until Jim's hands moved to Sherlock's temples and gradually, with Sherlock so open, so focused and striving for control over Jim - the only other person in the world worthy of it - Jim began to lose himself. 

Sherlock could see Jim slipping, and that was enough to snap the last delicate threads of Sherlock's patience. He quickened the pace, panting from the exertion. He didn't dare let his gaze wander from Jim's face - he wanted to watch him open up and fall apart. He wanted to see the exact moment it happened so he could reach in and claim it all, gather all the pieces up and put Jim back together completely changed. He wanted to eat Jim's heart and keep it safe beside his own.

" _Mine_ ," he breathed.

Jim's eyes widened and the look on his face was everything Sherlock wanted. Because suddenly Jim had everything he'd wanted. Everything from the very moment he'd first reached out to Sherlock. Sherlock was reaching back with just as much effort. The need in those hard grey eyes turned Sherlock into something changed himself, forced him out of his contentment and gave him motivation to act, to dominate. 

Jim's grin sparked. His mouth opened let out a howl of euphoria. He wanted this. He wanted everything from Sherlock. And he wanted Sherlock just like this, feeding on him, desperate for everything Jim had inside him. He took fistfuls of dark hair and yanked them together, staring into Sherlock and letting him see everything Jim wanted to give him, and when Sherlock's breath hitched at the sight, Jim felt the coil of heat bubbling up from the base of his spine and he was coming, nothing but Sherlock in his mind all the way through it. 

Sherlock drank it all in, watching with rapt fascination. Jim had let him in before, but this was further than he'd ever gone, past even the memory of the pool. Jim's voice was in his ears, his warmth was tightly wrapped around Sherlock, and the core of him was exposed. Sherlock gave a sigh of pleasure. He could feel Jim shudder beneath him, pushed over the edge by what he saw. Sherlock reached in during the moment of climax. It felt like sectioning off a piece of Jim and stealing it away; he covered Jim's mouth with his own to steal his breath in equal measure. A piece of himself dropped into the hole he'd left behind, and then he could no longer hold back. Two more thrusts and he was coming.

Jim's voice turned into broken cries, exclamations he didn't seem to realize he was making when they came out, but they voiced what he felt, feeling Sherlock take hold inside him. They would forever be a part of each other now. No matter what happened, there was no going back. Never would Sherlock fully be able to break away from him, nor Jim from Sherlock, and tears streaked down the dark haired criminal's eyes just knowing it. Happiness beyond anything he'd felt overwhelmed him, so strong Jim would have likened Sherlock to Nirvana if he could have, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's slim neck. 

Sherlock pulled Jim as close as physical reality would permit; their own bodies got in the way. He could feel his stolen treasure resonating inside him, a sliver as dark as Jim's eyes tucked up against his heart. The ties that he'd just made couldn't be broken. Boundaries had been blurred and broken. If the worst came to pass and the world burned around them, consuming John and Mycroft and everyone from his old life, Sherlock would survive. Jim would be there to jumpstart his heart and keep him going.

A tingle of breath brushed against his shoulder. Jim huffed a laugh, tiny, but there. He couldn't keep it all in him. "Oh Sherlock," he breathed, "You're better than drugs." And the laughing started up again, so soft bubbling up inside Jim like he'd made the funniest joke ever. The words weren't important. He just couldn't be silent with everything pulsing so brightly between them. 

They sank into the comforter, still wrapped in each other, holding onto that warmth like it was all they needed. 

"Of course I am," Sherlock murmured. Jim's laughter summoned a persistent smile, even as he nuzzled up against the smaller man's neck. "I'm so amazing and addictive that you couldn't stay away, even years after your first hit."

As it was, Sherlock seemed to have succeeded in his goal; both of them had forgiven the other, and Jim no longer seemed wound up with tension. "I'm glad you accepted. Even if you didn't care for the beginning."

Jim sighed, grinning ear to ear, and arched his neck to let Sherlock continue. "The end turned out well worth the means." 

When Jim's head turned, their eyes caught and each could see the other, changed. Sherlock stared back at himself in Jim, and so did Jim in Sherlock. They both knew it. It was written all over them. 

Jim had never looked so happy. Not a single line of tension drew his face down. It was like Richard, but so, so much more. 

Sherlock's grin widened a bit, reflective of the expression that had graced Jim's features so many times. Pride coiled within him. He'd made Jim look like this, done what no one else could or ever would. "Shall we clean up before Seb gets back? We're not going to have time once we start planning, and showers feel amazing like this. You have to experience it yourself to know what I mean."

Jim arched a slender brow, but went with Sherlock when he pulled back. Not wanting to break contact, Jim nearly attached himself to Sherlock's back as they made their way to the bathroom. 

Still contented, Jim's thoughts only partially moved on to their plans for Mycroft. He wanted to stay in this moment a little longer, and the heroin was helping. With open curiosity he watched Sherlock work the tap and find a few sets of towels from the cupboards. He wanted to run his hands down the long, lithe muscle in Sherlock's legs as he moved, so Jim did, giggling when he surprised the taller man. 

Jim was endearing like this, flushed with endorphins, relaxed and open and playful. Jim was never innocent, not by a long shot, but this was the closest Sherlock had ever seen. It sparked half-predatory, half-protective feelings in the former detective, prompting him to snatch Jim's wrists and back up against the tiled wall. "Still enjoying yourself, I see. It takes practice to be able to think about more than one thing with this in your system, and I didn't leave any room, did I?" 

"No, you didn't." He was met with a lazy smile, mischievous enough to match Sherlock's subtle challenge with his body language, but without any hint of malice. Jim's thoughts were all for Sherlock. Mycroft and whatever goons he'd brought with him were pushed to the side with a label reading "For Later" in Jim's mind, and the criminal was loving it. "You gave me what I'd always wanted."

"And what, precisely, are you going to do with it, now that you've gotten what you've always wanted? Not settle down and retired to Sussex, I should imagine." Steam had begun to fill the room, and Sherlock pulled Jim with him into the shower stall. The gasp Jim made when the warm water hit his skin triggered another round of laughter for the both of them. "Maybe another round. Shall we keep trading pieces until we've made a full swap? Eventually I'll have all of you, and you'll have all of me."

Tinkling laughter bubbled up inside of Jim, pouring out of him until he let his head fall back under the spray and shuddered at the sensation. Drops flew from his hair when he snapped his head right again. 

"I like the sound of that," Jim mused fondly, smiling up at Sherlock under dark brows and slipping his arms up the taller man's back. "And I plan to keep you, now that I have you. And now that you have me, I can't ever let you go." Some of the fire came back to him when he caught on that train of thought. "Together, we'll burn so brightly the world can't look away."

Those words summoned a vision of the fiery scrawl of their signatures looping with elegant, devastating lines across every continent, claiming everything as their own. Sherlock turned Jim around and draped himself around Jim's shoulders. His hands traced over the planes of Jim's stomach. Sherlock couldn't give this man up, he couldn't. Mycroft and John would come to understand this. "...what shall we burn first?"

Goosebumps rose along the criminal's flesh all at once and he leaned his head back into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Everywhere his body tingled and shivered in Sherlock's arms, those few little words sending his heart racing and his mind on fire. "This city. And the next. And the next after that." Jim's eyes fluttered closed. His smile spread over sharp teeth. With every movement of his body he told Sherlock how much he loved him. "No crime no matter how small will happen here without our say so. We will _own_ this place."

How much they did or didn't own didn't matter to Sherlock. Or rather, it only mattered in as much as it mattered to Jim. His lover had done what he could to make him happy, gifting him with puzzles and pleasures and a beautiful Stradivarius, and laying claim to the territories of the world was one of Jim's desires. Sherlock pressed his lips against Jim's skin in silent agreement. 

"I want something else." Sherlock's whisper made Jim shift in his arms, but Sherlock held tight and refused to let him turn around. "I already have the most important thing, but I want a token. Like the watch you still need to return to me. Something of you."

"I don't keep mementos. You know that." As many things as Jim had, they were all just things. Stolen. Pilfered. Taken from the hands of those they once belonged to in a meaningful way and became Jim's. Much like his adopted personalities. Much like Sherlock himself. Jim's gaze wandered in thought. "But I might be able to come up with _something._ " 

"You already did, once, but it got lost in the river when you took me. A memento behind glass." Sherlock supposed it was appropriate to ask for a piece of Jim's body to compliment the piece of Jim's mind. "That's far more interesting than you buying or stealing a trinket, even if it's specifically with me in mind."

That got a chuckle out of Jim. "Oh I have an idea. A sample of blood would mean little now that you could take it at any time for study. And it does pass your pretty lips so often." Sherlock could see Jim's smile in the corner of his mouth. "But you'll have to be patient. It could take some time to put together."

"I look forward to seeing what you come up with." It was entirely possible that Jim would surprise him.   
He was one of the few people in Sherlock's life who could and had managed to do so, for better or worse. Sherlock pressed them together one last time before he released Jim with a sigh. They couldn't dally under the water and in the bedroom all day. Not until the danger passed and Mycroft backed off.

Jim turned then. He gave a minute shake of his head and Sherlock could tell he was trying to brush away the detachment induced by the drug. Searching for his core of motivation was like searching through fog, and it would have some time yet to wear off. Jim frowned while Sherlock turned off the water. "I don't know how you can stand to think like this on a regular basis."

"You aren't used to it. It's far more difficult at the beginning, when you don't know how to work with it. Instead of being able to avoid troublesome thoughts or physical pain from sidetracking you, it makes you easily distractible and unmotivated." Sherlock stepped out of the shower and grabbed towels off the rack, handing one over to Jim. "It took me some time to learn to use it as anything other than an escape from pain and boredom, which are much the same thing."

Jim smiled at that. He could understand. He took the offered towel and ran it over himself quickly as if trying to combat the lethargy with purposeful motion. He sighed deeply when he was finished and looked more like a contented, ruffled, thing with his hair unkempt and eyes too soft under his dark brows. "Not lacking in boredom these days." He smiled. 

Jim wrapped the towel around his waist and wandered back into the bedroom, picking up the tshirt and tossing it to the side with a dissatisfied curl of his lip before he went rummaging through the closets. 

"I don't suppose you have clothes here for me?" Sherlock asked. When Jim's hazy mind processed the question and he shook his head, Sherlock sighed and tied his towel around his waist. Sebastian's quarters ought to have a change of clothes. The bodyguard's outfits would at least be the right height, if too loose for his build.

Sherlock's focus was such that he was halfway across the living room before he registered the presence sprawled out on the sofa.

"I see you two were keeping busy." Sebastian was grinning up at him with an all too knowing gaze. "And heard." He lifted himself into a sitting position just to lean over the coffee table and light a cigarette. "Fortunately for you, they're not on our tail. But they did get damn close to the Upper East Side, the spooks I could spot anyway." Seb leaned back again and leveled Sherlock with his blue stare, kicking his legs up and letting his knees fall apart casually, no doubt enjoying the view. "Your little flatmate looked like he might have been heading for 495 before I had to lose him."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled upward; Seb could look all he wanted, admire the bruises he'd left, but he couldn't touch unless Sherlock permitted it. "There will have been more that you didn't see." The question was, if they'd found the flat, would Mycroft have been able to keep it quiet enough to lure them back in? "Eastside 495? That's in the complete opposite direction of where I looked to be heading when he first caught my tail."

A mistake. Possibly. It was difficult to tell for certain, but if Mycroft hadn't trained John too thoroughly on how to avoid leaving clues, or John had forgotten his instructions in the stress of the moment... "I'm going to change, and then we're going to take a look at maps of the areas around 495."

Sebastian blew out a stream of smoke, letting Sherlock go. 

"How far did they get up the East Side?" Jim, dressed now in dark slacks and silk, had come to watch them from the doorway. 

"Around Sutton Place, cops spent some time doing patrols, but that was it. Watson was with them for a while before he split. Dispatch sent patrols down to lower Manhattan." 

Jim chewed his lip. "This tells us they've had the time to narrow their search to certain areas of the city. Fortunately, it also means they've shown their hand by sending NYPD to the places they might expect Sherlock to show up." He shook his head with a small smile. "It seems Mycroft has been fast on our trail."

Sherlock rejoined both men in the living room, tugging too-loose clothing into place with a faint grimace. "More than that. Mycroft was overhasty in trying to make use of the element of surprise. He thinks he knows likely areas of where we might be, but he's not concentrating in any one area. Given his rush and-" Sherlock paused as memories of anguished cries filled his head again. "...John wasn't expecting to find me, I could tell that much. With strong emotions in play, they might have forgotten to take proper precautions and tipped their hand. The area around the Queens Midtown Tunnel is full of embassy buildings and hotels."

"The perfect place for a setup if one seeks security, discretion, and easy contact with the branches of government Mycroft would need to secure proper partnerships and surveillance." Jim nodded, far away in his head. 

Sebastian's eyes were on him now. Even though he looked pristine, there was a sedateness to Jim that was uncharacteristic unless he was in one of his moods, which was never at a time like this. 

"We ought to send them a greeting, don't you think Sherlock? Nothing too dangerous, just a little something to let our new neighbors know how unwelcome they are."

"Why not cause the entire embassy neighborhood to vacate itself? This city's infrastructures are complex, but they have to be sectioned off in order to deal with individual neighborhoods. It should be simple enough to cause a sewage overflow to the area to render the buildings uninhabitable. Toxic waste would be a stronger message, but I doubt there are storage facilities close enough." Given the relative richness of the area and the sensitive nature of international embassies, dangerous materials would have been moved away. Likely to the poorer neighborhoods. 

Chuckles racked Jim's shoulders. "I _like_ it." He moved into the room with Seb's eyes following him still, until he took a seat on the corner of the coffee table at Sherlock's knee. "I don't think we could make our intentions any clearer. They would be forced to relocate, allowing us to track them during the move. I think this would be a good time to begin a takeover of the major shipping lines in and out of the city. We'll need supplies at the ready. No surprise there that most are currently controlled by territorial factions of organized crime, but they will know who's come knocking on their doorstep when they hear my name." 

"Taking over the docks will require different leverage than gaining surveillance and control of the bridges, tunnels, and subway lines." Sherlock eyed Jim's smaller body as it swayed slightly. He draped an arm around Jim to steady him and made a note to lower the dosage should Jim ever agree to try this again. "Mycroft will notice when we start moving. He'll try to intercept us somehow."

"Yes, he will, which is why their relocation will be the perfect time to do it." Jim looked up at Sherlock with only fondness. 

"Sounds like he'll be at our heels a lot," Seb grumbled and stubbed out his cigarette. 

Jim's attention turned to him as fluidly as oil. He could hear the unspoken question in Seb's words - whether they would be playing games forever or going in for the kill. It was obvious which the hitman would prefer. He had no sentiments for Sherlock's brother, nor his flatmate. It was also the practical decision. 

"He will be." Jim said pleasantly. "But Mycroft is off limits. Besides, though he may not enjoy a good game as much as our dear Sherlock, he is one of the few worthy players on the board." 

"I also want John Watson unharmed," Sherlock insisted. "He'll be a challenge, as he also is an experienced marksman, but I'm sure you're up to the task of keeping all of us safe. I want to drive them away, not drive them into early graves." 

He was still fond of John, even if he didn't understand Sherlock on many levels. John would be hurt enough already, knowing Sherlock was alive and with Jim now. Sherlock knew with certainty that it would eat at John's sense of morals just as it would eat at what he had, finally, acknowledged were the doctor's unspoken, unacted-upon feelings for him. Sherlock could only hope he'd eventually find happiness.

Seb frowned. He looked to Jim, who smiled back and relaxed against Sherlock's hip. "You guys aren't gonna make it easy on me, are you." 

"Sebastian," Jim chided, "You should know better." 

It was apparently not often that Moriarty left an enemy alive, judging from Seb's reaction and what Sherlock had come to know of the man. Nevertheless, neither Mycroft nor John would enjoy the game they were walking into. 

"We have at least determined that our flat is currently unknown, and in spite of the surveillance your brother has set up throughout the city, we should be able to return without trouble. Although we must now be ready to leave at a moment's notice." Jim brushed his head back and forth against Sherlock's trousers while he spoke, enjoying the feel. His logic was sound and his tone was clear, but it was obvious he would need time to come down completely. 

"Let's go back, then. Seb and I can start preparing while you clear up, hmm?" Jim was focusing quite well, but still not enough. Any detailed plans they tried to construct at the moment might have enough flaws to make it a pointless endeavor. Sherlock could operate in a half-haze from experience, but they needed Jim sharp. Particularly if Sherlock made a mistake unknowingly. Against Mycroft, he wasn't willing to risk playing handicapped.

Jim cracked his neck, not liking to be out of commission for the time being. He stood, leaning close to Sherlock. 

All the while Seb looked at him with even more scrutiny. He could tell something was off. "What are you on?"

"Sherlock's little cocktail," Jim answered with a smile. "Now let's move." 

That pushed Seb into gear quickly enough. Once they'd gathered up their things and set up the flat's security system they were back on their way. The trip to the garage and the safety of their car prevented the need for disguise, as they could avoid cameras easily enough. 

Sherlock kept an arm around Jim as they moved. Protective impulses were new, pulled to the surface by the threat they were now facing, Jim's intoxicated state, and the additional bond they now shared. In a way, Sherlock supposed he was protecting himself. Selfish motivations were far more familiar than selfless ones.

"I had thought you'd be gone for longer," Sherlock said once they were all settled into the car. Jim had tipped over and settled onto his lap again. 

Seb looked at him in the rearview mirror with raised brows. "Do you realize how long you two were going at it? I've been gone for hours." Seb shook his head. "But yeah, it was pretty obvious from the beginning they'd lost you and didn't know where to look. Your flatmate left after probably two hours of patrols with the cops. Gotta figure he was heading back to base." 

Sherlock blinked, then frowned. He'd forgotten just how much his sense of time warped with compounds in his system. "Most likely. He would have realized that if they didn't catch me right away that chances were high I'd taken cover and was already out of reach. It wouldn't make sense to linger out in the open. How many cops responded?"

"He got a couple local detectives out there. Sent three patrols out when they couldn't find you. I'd say it was a decently sized team, but nowhere near the amount that saw you off the London Bridge." Seb shot him a tight smile. "I'm thinking your brother didn't want to show his full hand. If he's been talking with the police, then he's probably been talking with other agencies, and he's got a hell of a lot more firepower ready to tail you than that."

The sun was already lowering toward the horizon. It had to be mid afternoon, earliest. 

"Very likely. Mycroft has always tried to err on the side of caution." It had saved them many times in the past, but also been one of his more frustrating traits - paralyzing fear of missteps, and inability to accept when Sherlock stumbled. Boring and suffocating, all at once. 

"We may want to take that into consideration. Targeting and crippling the ability of his official forces to respond. Give the authorities so many fires to put out that nobody will hear the dog whistle when he finally blows it."

" _Yes_ ," Jim hissed from Sherlock's lap. His fingers dug into the flesh of Sherlock's thighs. "A strategy as old as divide and conquer, cut off Mycroft's resources and he will be scrambling to patch the holes. The trick will be doing this at the precise moment they are needed, and keeping him unaware until that time." Jim happily nuzzled against Sherlock's crotch, being right there, before they pulled off the street and into their parking garage. 

Practiced as Sherlock was at dealing with the effects of drugs, Jim wasn't doing wonders for his focus. It was difficult to muster the will to care about policemen and government agents and snipers when they all seemed so far away and Jim was _right there_ , with him and absolutely invincible. "Jim. Jim, we're home." 

His dark head lifted and he turned to grin up at Sherlock like they were sharing a secret before he rolled himself back up into a sitting position and stretched. Jim leaned into Sherlock and pressed his mouth to his ear. "Mmh, good to be back." And then he pulled away with the same fluid motion, a little less graceful than usual, but he was out of the car and smoothing his shirt moments later. 

Seb got out and walked ahead, checking their surroundings as they moved. He wouldn't be comfortable with them in the open while Mycroft was still searching. 

Sherlock followed close behind Jim, ready to catch him should his balance ever waiver. They made it through the garage and into the lift without incident. Sherlock struggled to regain his focus and start thinking ahead. "We... need to pack whatever's essential, wipe or destroy anything that might be dangerous if we need to suddenly move." Sherlock didn't need much, but it would be an annoyance to lose the flat and its facilities. Sebastian's earlier presents might have to go to waste after all.

Seb nodded. "Won't be difficult." Jim's mouth pulled in a way that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't quite not either. They'd done this before. It was one of the reasons Jim didn't keep a centralized computer system and set up all his flats, hotels, and even the plane with clothing and other necessities. Still, Sherlock was right. If they could prepare, all the better. 

When they arrived, Seb tossed his gun on the counter and went for the laptop, readying to get in touch with what contacts they could. Jim, however, walked off to his bedroom with purpose. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and watched him go. With a shrug, he turned and headed up the stairs to his own room. He left the skull print on the wall. John's cream jumper was dug out of its drawer and carefully wrapped around Eli for extra protection. Sherlock emptied as much of the closet and drawers into a duffel as he could, knowing that Jim wouldn't have arranged for clothing at the other flats and that even simple procurements later on might prove dangerous.

Critical chemicals from the lab room were placed into a carrying case. Along with his violin and his recently purchased supplies, Sherlock had everything ready should they need to leave at a moment's notice.

When he stepped back onto the stairs, Sebastian looked up from where he'd laid everything out on the sofa and called Sherlock down. 

"We've got informants in the force who are saying they've been told quite a bit about you. At least the higher ups have. And I was right, their search didn't turn up much. On the other hand, your brother probably _knows_ we've got men on the inside, so… Take that with a grain of salt." Seb drew back and made a space for the lean detective, showing him the monitor. "I found a decent enough map of the sewage lines running through lower Manhattan. You'll want to take a look at it."

Sherlock took a seat beside the bodyguard and turned the laptop screen. "Nothing too dire, but several combined overflow points. There's a double weakness there. Lines can get backed up so the sewage gets returned to the senders, and there's also a point where the line splits to allow sewage to flow to a treatment works. Depending on how treatment is done, it's feasible to send something down the line to damage the facility."

They worked over the map, pinpointing their options, until Jim returned carrying a myriad of supplies and a bucket of…blue sludge. He sat down beside Sherlock with an all too pleasant look about him. "Sherlock, dear, I'm going to need to borrow your head." When both men continued to stare at Jim quizzically, he went on. "Sebastian and I already have enough prosthetics for a disguise, but we need to make one for you." 

Tension left Sherlock's shoulders with that clarification. "Seb will cut me out of the mould," he insisted, fingers going to his buttons to strip off his shirt for the process. "I'm not trusting you with a cutting implement near my face, not like this." Sebastian might like to purposefully hurt him, but he had the control and good survival sense not to. Jim, however, might get distracted halfway through. All it would take was for his hand to slip.

Jim pouted, but it fell from his face a second later. "In the kitchen," he directed, pulling Sherlock to his feet and shooing both taller men away from the plush furniture and instead onto the better slate of smooth marble and steel. They could make a mess there and Jim wouldn't kill anyone when he was himself again. 

Once Sherlock was seated comfortably on a stool and Seb had the laptop set up beside them, both still going over their options, Jim set to work. He pulled back Sherlock's hair and covered his face in an oily cream to help the mold slip off before he began to apply the thick paste that would become the mold itself, dark eyes smiling at the detective all the while. 

Sherlock eventually had to go quiet. He got in one last good glare before shutting his eyes and letting Jim finish the application. Making body casts was never comfortable, between the gunk on his skin and the matter of breathing through straws. Sherlock's hands clenched in his lap while he waited for everything to dry.

Jim caught them up in his own, loosening Sherlock's muscles and letting him feel Jim's pulse. They had all done this. Jim knew how uncomfortable it was, especially for someone who liked to remain in control of their senses and surroundings. Distantly, Sherlock could hear Seb's fingers on the keyboard, Jim making a comment here and there while they waited. After what seemed like an eternity had passed, it dried solid. 

A new, larger pair of hands turned Sherlock and Sebastian moved in front of him, pealing up the edges at his neck to loosen the base before moving to the back with his knife. 

There was no helping the way Sherlock tensed up, just knowing a knife was slicing right behind his head. Sherlock didn't believe that Seb would cut him, by accident or on purpose, but that belief didn't stop knots from forming in his back. A few seconds felt like forever, but soon enough the mold was split enough for him to slip out.

Sherlock coughed and left Jim and Seb to handle the rest. He needed to wash up again.

Jim's hands brushed along his shoulders when he drew away and left for the bathroom, even more tactile than he usual with the tail end of the high. Jim leaned against the countertop and offered Seb a grin that was too wide and too sly, probably just to get under the man's skin while they'd barred Jim from making too many suggestions over their plans. It worked, and from the looks of things, Jim leaning over the computer and scrolling his spider's fingers over the trackpad, catching Sebastian's eye and attention so thoroughly, it seemed they wouldn't be able to keep him out for long. 

Sherlock scrubbed down and rejoined them, curls smoothed back and dripping with water. "Don't tempt him, Jim. You're not at the top of your game like this. Seb might decide it's worth dying to get a bite of you." He slid back into a seat beside the smaller criminal and trailed fingertips down his spine. 

Jim heaved a sigh and sat back into Sherlock's touch with a fair amount of grumbling. Still, his shoulder blades drew down when Sherlock's fingers came up and Jim melted into it, leaving Sebastian to watch in envy. Not to be outdone that quickly, Jim turned to Sherlock instead, closer than necessary. "We'll need to set the gears in motion tonight. Your plan. But hurry."

"Unless we want to bank on explosives doing the job and backing up the system instead of mass-leaking into the pipes to the treatment facility, we'll want a hydrophobic polyurethane. It's not too difficult to find, as it's normally used by contractors in small amounts to fix cracks in concrete foundations. Spray it in, and contact with moisture will cause it to expand from twenty to thirty times its original volume and seal, even against high pressure." Sherlock nodded toward the laptop. "The marks on the map are the overflow points for the targeted area. It shouldn't be terribly difficult to hit all of them." 

"And an ideal opportunity to take out some essential contacts your brother will be working with." Jim waved his hand in annoyance when he could tell Sherlock was about to scrutinize his suggestion. He went on nevertheless. "They'll call down the CDC, sewage crews and the like, but we'll have a perfect shot at any high level British-American intermediaries moving through the evacuation. Very likely the NYPD as well. Possibly even the Commissioner. Now tell me you want to pass that up." 

Seb turned to Sherlock. "That's a sound point. If I can get a crew together by tonight, which is doable, we can seal it up and get in position."

"Then do it. My restriction only applies to my brother and my... friends." Sherlock frowned, wondering if perhaps they couldn't be considered as such anymore. Mrs. Hudson might still think of him with some measure of fondness, but Lestrade and the rest of his team likely now regarded him as a deceased monster. Perhaps even John regarded him as an enemy, much as it hurt to think of that possibility. "Mycroft isn't going to back off without severe pressure and consequences, whether threatened or actualized. Losing a few pieces off his board will put him on the defensive." 

"Exactly where I'd like to keep him." Jim curled a lock of Sherlock's hair in his finger. "After tonight word of our existence will spread. I'll make sure of it. And brother dear won't be able to stop the flood." Jim's eyes were beginning to clear. 

Seb hopped off his stool. "I'll get ready."

"Will we have sufficient men for both tasks? All the openings are going to need to be hit quickly. We won't have time to have one team go down the shoreline sealing each overflow pipe. Not without the team getting noticed and caught by the first wave of responders."

"No, we won't. Not on this short notice," Jim stepped in. "Which is why you and I will be joining Sebastian. The hired help will be able to take care of the pipes below. I do hope you're alright with a rifle. But it won't really matter. Mostly, as with all things, it'll be the thought that counts."

Seb stuck his head around the corner, eyes narrowing on Jim. "You'd better have a damn good getaway plan." He never liked it when Jim was bodily involved in their work. 

"We're not leaving until we do," Sherlock added with a frown. Going out into the open and directly attacking individuals from the rooftops would be nearly as mad as calmly strolling past whatever building Mycroft was holed up in. It would be a temptation for Mycroft to make a hasty move, and a severe risk for themselves. "And I have no experience doing sniper work. I always focused on close combat."

"Just point and shoot. And make up for accuracy with ammo." Jim shrugged with a blasé air that put shame to Sebastian's profession, which earned him another sour look. "The real trick will be _disappearing_." An air of delight settled over Jim. Finally, the detachment was noticeably slipping from his aura like so much water being sluiced from his shoulders when he stepped closer to Sherlock to emphasize his point. He drew up a map of the sewage system, complete with manhole access points. "If we leave one line open, just one, using our blockage of the others around it to seal off every adjoining line, we'll be able to shoot from these two buildings and escape through the tunnel below."

"It will be a rush to get down there quickly enough." Timing would be tight, even barring unforeseen complications. Excitement was radiating off Jim, but Sherlock was afraid the smaller man's enthusiasm was clouding his judgment. "Are you certain you want to risk so much this soon, just to make a statement? One slip and Mycroft will have us in hand. We need a backup plan."

Jim considered. "Explosives close enough to the base of the building would provide enough distraction and dust for us to duck out. It would buy us that extra time, enough to force the police to fall back until they're sure they've all detonated. We'd be long clear by then." Dark eyes rose to meet grey, Jim's just calm enough to show Sherlock that his reasoning was sound. Daring, but sound. 

Sherlock searched Jim's face for a long moment before he finally nodded, satisfied. "Very well. We'll try it." His voice was rougher than he'd cared for, but that couldn't be helped. As enjoyable as their brief session had been together, Sherlock's tension had begun to return the moment he had to seriously contemplate the possibility of losing. Losing this life, losing Jim and Sebastian, losing John and Mycroft - until matters were settled, there was always going to be a sense that the executioner's axe was hovering just out of view.

Jim lifted his hand and drew the dark hair back from Sherlock's temple. The frown on his lips and the softness at the very corners of his eyes said he could see fear in Sherlock, yet still Jim would not yield. Getting this close to Sherlock was like feeling echoes of it thrumming through him for the people Sherlock cared for, far enough to distance himself, but close enough to touch. It was _only_ for those special few, and Jim was glad of that. It was simply very inconvenient that those few were here, bringing all their baggage with them. 

Sherlock leaned into the touch and stared back. Just as Jim had begun to understand a bit about his few, rare emotional attachments, so too could Sherlock feel a bit of Jim's desires - the territorial feelings, the urge to show off and assert his dominance and superiority over Mycroft and any unfortunates who got in the way. Sherlock could sympathize, but for the fact that Mycroft and John were targets in their campaign. 

Sherlock leaned down and closed the last few inches between them. Compromise would have to work for now. So long as the delicate balance was kept, with John, Mycroft, Jim, and Sebastian all kept unharmed, Sherlock would be... not exactly satisfied, but willing to continue.

Jim's lips yielded to Sherlock's, soft and supple, mouth sweet with the taste of _Jim_ and little else. Perhaps Jim could feel it in him because his whole body stretched into the kiss, rising up to meet Sherlock's taller figure until he pulled away with a shining delight in his eyes. As far as Jim's expressions went, this one was subdued. 

With a loud clatter, Seb dropped three heavy bags of equipment on the kitchen table, obviously aware he was interrupting the moment. Jim's smile only turned crooked. 

"Get on the phone. I want your men rounded up in under three hours. They'll need the time to set up before tonight." Jim snapped. 

Seb gave him a fake salute, but pulled out his phone and did what he'd been about to do anyway.

Amusement rippled through both men at Seb's little display. Obsession and dedication weren't adequate words to describe what held Sebastian to Jim, for everything that he put up with, including constant neglect and how unlikely it was for that to ever change.

Sherlock turned back towards Jim with a slight smile, and the crook of one eyebrow said it all. Sebastian was feeling bitter.

Jim rolled his eyes before shooting Sherlock as innocent a smile as he could, like he and Sherlock were on the verge of developing an unspoken language between them. Jim knew exactly why Seb was putting up a fuss. Minutes ago he'd been leaning into the man's lap, shoulder to shoulder before Sherlock called him off. That hadn't worked out very well for Sebastian. And still, Jim was as secure as ever with his control over the man, frustration or no. 

"Come. We need to source the required materials, unless you happened to _already have_ high pressure injection polyurethane expansion foam. In which case, I will be highly impressed," Sherlock added. He grabbed the laptop and steered Jim towards the couch. Both of them ignored Sebastian's silent grousing as the man paced the kitchen and made the needed personnel arrangements.

"Given what he was permitted yesterday, I'm surprised he's feeling so neglected. Clearly my favors aren't being valued as much as they should be."

"Feed a stray once…" Jim smirked to himself, pulling his legs up and tucking them under him while he leaned into Sherlock to see the monitor. With a cyber-currency transfer into the bank of one of Jim's throwaway identities, they were able to find two suppliers in Brooklyn who could meet their needs in terms of quantity. When the transaction was complete, Jim dropped his head over the back of the couch and ordered Seb to tell whichever of his men he liked the least to go over and pick it up. 

That poor unfortunate soul, in showing his face, would likely receive a visit from the elder Holmes somewhere down the line. 

"He's a fun stray to feed, really. Although I can see why you don't." Sherlock sighed and leaned back. He still was sore from yesterday, but he wouldn't be able to afford dulled wits and nerves when it was showtime. The pain would simply have to be endured until the job was done.

With the arrangements taken care of, all they had left to do was wait. Sherlock's mind, per its habit, naturally sought out ideas to grasp onto and analyze, and the easiest topics to find were the ones already weighing heavily on him. Jim had promised not to kill the few individuals on Sherlock's list, but it was still uncertain what would happen should they capture Mycroft or John.

Once they got a headcount from Seb, they went through logistics over and over again, deciding where the men would be divided, how much time would be given for every point they needed to get in and get out, how long it would take for the sealant to expand and solidify, where Seb, Sherlock, and Jim would place themselves once people were evacuated into the street, and, very importantly, alternate plans of action for each step. 

They would arrive early, get in position until the others were ready and had done their part. Seb split first, needing to coordinate his team before he met back up with the pair. 

Jim would be setting up the bombs himself. He said it was an art form. With a light jacket, jeans, baseball cap, and a messenger back of explosives over his shoulder, he was set to go. 

Sherlock wasn't pleased with having Jim put himself even further at risk. "I don't see why this is so terribly different from the cars," he muttered. "My placement was fine. Having you set them by yourself means that you'll be exposed for twice as long. We haven't even determined yet how many men and cameras Mycroft has at his disposal, and Sebastian isn't present to cover you should something go wrong."

"Yet of the two of us, you are much more distinctly recognizable, especially to your own brother. I'll be inside the building after one pass around it, and we'll both be leaving under fifty minutes later." Jim's chin lifted childishly in defiance. "I wouldn't trust a single fool on Seb's team to place these correctly without being noticed." 

Sherlock could tell that Sebastian didn't like it either, but their only solace was that Jim's part in the open would be played out before the action began at all. Mycroft already had his face, there was no risk of him being seen on camera _after_ they reviewed footage of the shooting.

Sherlock's mouth set in a stubborn line. He knew Jim was right, but he still wished he wasn't. "If you get caught, you'll have hell to pay _after_ I get you back," he grumbled. His arms crossed defensively.   
"I'll be watching your progress as best I can once we get inside the building. If I see any sign that you're in trouble out there, I'm coming to get you."

One corner of Jim's lip turned up. It did little to hide the subtle thrum of anticipation emanating from him. He wouldn't say it aloud, but Sherlock knew he'd liked hearing that. 

"Then let's roll." Jim flashed a grin and spun on his heel, sneakers squeaking against the polished tile. Darkness had long fallen outside, and Jim and Sherlock neglected their usual nondescript mode of transportation for an older, low end model. At first glance, it could have been an unmarked police car, and that was precisely the intention. They made their way south, past Rockefeller Center, nearly to Midtown, before they parked. The underground sewer line ran directly beneath them, and with Seb giving the go-ahead just a call away, Jim and Sherlock quickly found an entry point via manhole and began their descent. 

Sherlock had been expecting stench, but even anticipating it didn't do much to combat the resulting nausea. There was a walkway on either side to keep their feet dry and out of the rancid liquid, but the smell was going to seep into their clothing and cling for hours afterwards. Sherlock tucked his nose and mouth under the edge of his shirt as they walked, listening to the echo of their footsteps further down the tunnel.

It was a few minutes before they found a ladder up to an entry hatch. Sherlock climbed up first to grapple with the metal and push it open. A quick glance told him the basement room was clear. Sherlock scrambled out, then reached back down to offer Jim a hand up. 

The little criminal followed easily with Sherlock's help. They found themselves in a maintenance room next to the underground parking structure, precisely as they had anticipated. Leaving the utility hole open for their escape, Jim picked his way around bulky HVAC units with Sherlock close on his heels until they found a service elevator that would take them out of the underbelly of the tower and into its heights. Comparative to the rest of the block, the building they'd chosen was midsize, consisting of apartments of which nearly one quarter was empty due to financial troubles and bad management, but very convenient for their plan, putting them directly across the corner from no less than three ambassadorial suites. 

They rode the elevator to the ground floor, pausing it to keep their bags out of sight and with confirmation from Sebastian that their teams were in place and making progress on the sewer lines, Jim took his backpack, adjusted his baseball cap, and made for the door. 

Sherlock watched him go, anxiety filtering into his pale eyes as Jim's silhouette disappeared through the doors to the outside world. He pressed the lift button that would take him up to the right floor and tried not to think of the possible ways this could go wrong. It was unlikely that Mycroft would have instructed any special teams to shoot to kill, but one never knew. If his brother thought Jim was a greater threat than could be counterbalanced by the knowledge and leverage he possessed, he might very well err on the side of caution.

Sherlock would never forgive him if that happened.

The lift chimed as it reached its destination and ended Sherlock's contemplations. He retrieved his lock picks from his pockets and began exploring. They needed to find rooms with the perfect angles.

On the ground below Jim, chewing his bubble gum and texting with one hand, began a casual stroll around the building's perimeter, planting wads of C-4 in niches along the outer stone wall in measured increments. He smiled to a couple at the street corner, waited on a bench until they were gone, and finished the last of his circuit. Sherlock would be watching from above, but Jim never looked up once. For all the world he looked as natural as any other pedestrian on the street below, and in no time he was back inside, slipping into the elevator. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as the figure down below reentered the building. Things were going smoothly thus far. He'd found the perfect room for sniping and begun to set up the equipment they'd brought. Within a few minutes, Jim would help him finish.

Then all they had to do was wait for the opportune moment. Seb's men should have performed their tasks by now, which meant that the sewage backup was about to be noticeable. Once people started evacuating and response teams arrived, they'd have their pick of targets.

Eventually Jim's footsteps trotted down the hall outside, stopping swiftly when they reached Sherlock's door, Jim would have seen the signs of forced entry, and then the dark haired man appeared with delight in his eyes and a manic edge to his movements. Jim was excited. 

He joined Sherlock at the window, dark eyes glancing over his work and noting what needed to be added in one motion before they landed on Sherlock. Jim's hand snaked into his hair, leaning in and suddenly they were kissing in full view of the street below, should anyone happen to look up. Jim pulled back with a smirk. "Not long now."

Jim's enthusiasm was infectuous. Sherlock returned his smirk with a crooked smile of his own, flushed with pleasure. There wasn't a thought for the people who were about to die; they were just game pieces, not real people. Not anyone who mattered. "How many do you think we'll get before we have to leave?"

Jim's laughter came from the back of his throat like bells. "Depends. But I'll wager you together we can outdo Sebastian," he whispered conspiratorially. If they did, it would surely be a feat. Sebastian's headcount as a marksman was nearly unmatched. 

Conveniently, it was then that Jim's phone beeped. Seb was on his way. 

Sherlock grinned. "Let's try. It'll get under his skin." Winding the sniper up and watching his reactions was uniquely entertaining. It would be awhile before he could take advantage of particular reactions, but Jim would enjoy it all the same. "NYPD take top priority?"

Jim nodded, taking one of the tripods and dragging it over to the other window. "And any official your brother might be working with. If you recognize a British ambassador, take him out. If we can cut off ties in his network, all the better." Jim's gun was mounted quickly. Clearly he'd either done this before or had the ingrained memory of watching Seb. 

Another beep of Jim's phone. 

"Seb's set up. West side, same floor, he'll exit into the same hall when this is over," Jim announced. They were ready. All they had to do was wait. 

Minutes ticked by. Sherlock began to wonder if the tunnels hadn't been properly sealed and was just about to start pacing when the wail of sirens started up outside. Sherlock dropped into position and peered through his rifle's sight.

The first few people had begun to filter out of the consulate buildings, faces twisted into upset lines. "We're in luck, Jim." The lead ambassador was likely to still be at his residence in Washington, D.C., but they seemed to have hit at the perfect time to catch most of the UK consulate staff. "Mycroft is going to feel this."

Across the room, Jim's eyes widened in anticipation. He pressed his head up against the scope of his rifle, fitted for night vision, and surveyed the crowd. Sherlock could tell when he recognized them, either by face or by dress or by the people they were speaking to, Jim would be able to pick them out as easily as Sherlock had. They gave it a few more minutes, waiting through every one as though it were an hour. They didn't want to wait long enough for anyone important to leave before they could begin, but they needed more bodies on the street. 

Roughly ten minutes later, when the street was filled with disgruntled officials, a sleepy conglomeration of civilians, and a smattering of police and maintenance vehicles, Jim raised his fingers to signal Sherlock. "It's time."

Sherlock saw the motion out of the corner of his vision. The scope turned as he pivoted his rifle to choose the first victim. One squeeze of the trigger and a consulate official dropped. Sherlock had already moved on to his next victim by the time people around the first started screaming, and he could hear the clicks beside him as Jim joined in with his own weapon, the suppressor on the barrel hissing with each shot fired.

Sherlock kept tally as they killed. His heart was pounding, but his focus gave the illusion of calm. That shattered when a familiar face came into view, silver hair glinting in the streetlight. John Watson was right beside him, which meant that Mycroft was nearby. "Shit."

"I see them," Jim's voice was flat. He didn't stop shooting, picking off people closer down the street than John and Lestrade. With their vantage point across the corner, they had two streets to choose from full of rushing figures trying to find cover. Jim was set on making every last second count. The NYPD officers had barricaded themselves behind their cars, unable to tell from which direction the shots came. 

Sherlock kept firing until it was plain that the police down below had figured out the correct building. He gave the crowd one last look and froze. Through the scope, he could see John Watson staring up at his window. The pain in the doctor's expression was enough to make him scramble back out of view and begin dissembling his gun and stand. "We have to move."

With only a grunt, Jim fell into motion beside him. In seconds their bags were slung over their shoulders and they were darting into the hallway, nearly colliding with the wall of a man that was Sebastian. He caught Jim by the arm for the second it took to right the smaller man's balance again and they took off, footfalls echoing down the hall until they hit the stairwell. They weren't very far up, necessary for both escape and position, but the police would be on them soon. So would John. Jim pulled out the detonator and flipped the switch as they shot down the stairs, passing the first floor lobby. 

The explosion was deafening. The building shook around them. The advancing cops would be stopped in their tracks if they were so lucky as to have been outside the blast range. And John, well… They could only hope John hadn't run fast enough to make it that far down the street. Fortunately, it didn't seem the structural integrity of the tower had been fatally impaired. Still they kept running, tearing into the basement, finding the maintenance room, and back into the service tunnel, closing the hatch above them. 

Sherlock shifted his hold on his bag and waited for Sebastian to finish descending. Once all three of them were on the ground, the started running for the manhole that was their planned exit. For all that Sebastian and Sherlock were long-legged, Jim seemed to keep pace just fine. 

"That went as well as could be expected, aside from having Lestrade dragged into this." Sherlock knew he should have expected it; Mycroft would have known that the relationship between the two of them was different. Lestrade had been recruited not only for emotional leverage, but professional as well. Much as lawmen could get into territorial spats, having Lestrade would make it easier for Mycroft to interact with police who weren't as firmly under his control.

Jim would have heard the frustration in his voice, but they kept running. Finally Seb, in the lead, caught the iron bar of the ladder that would take them to the top and swung himself up, heaving the cover open before helping Jim and Sherlock out. Quickly, they put it back into place and sped down the sidewalk to their car, waiting for them inconspicuously on the street. 

Once safely inside with Seb at the wheel, pulling out and heading south, away from the crisis, Jim turned to Sherlock. Smooth fingers ran over his high cheekbone, and there was something in Jim's eyes that could only be described as…happiness. That wasn't the word for it at all, but it came from Jim like happiness would come from any other man, and it was there because of Sherlock. 

Sherlock wrapped himself around Jim, soaking up the touch and a bit of Jim's pleasure. He felt dirty, and it was only partially due to the reeking miasma that was clinging to the three of them. He wanted to get home and wash, as if that would take away the memory of John's expression along with the grime. "Did we beat Sebastian?" They'd only had a few minutes to work, but Sherlock had downed several people in that space. If Jim had gotten a similar count, it was difficult to imagine that Seb would have outperformed them.

"We did." Jim's voice was soothing, but he could hear the smile in it. And Seb's annoyed glance in the mirror said everything. Jim's fingers drifted down the back of Sherlock's neck, down his spine, able to see that the detective was shaken. Probably knowing why, too. But, as ever, Jim didn't want to talk about John. Instead, his hands did what they could to sooth the anxiety coiling in Sherlock. "We'll be home soon." 

And they would be. Traveling south led them across the bridge to the east river and, though they took the long way around, they made it back to their own apartment, the small space they had carved out for themselves. 

This wouldn't be enough to shake Mycroft off. Sherlock knew that, even having received the clear message that he wasn't wanted, his brother would persist in the chase. He'd be angry, but not enough yet to shake his careful planning and make him slip. "This won't delay them past however long it takes to move to a new, secure location. Mycroft will leave someone else to do the dirty work and clean up. We'll need to start getting ready for another strike soon."

"We will. I anticipate he'll ramp the search. And, were it not for my own attempts to 'come out' to the public, I would say he'd even risk outing us himself should he become so desperate. If we slow down, we allow him the chance to strike. He needs to be on the defensive, from every direction. " Jim cracked his neck when they stepped back into their flat, head rolling eerily from one side to the other, acclimating himself to being in their space again. Sebastian was all business, taking their bags to the living room table to be dismantled and cleaned before being stowed away again. 

Sherlock barely spared a glance for the ex-colonel. He pulled Jim behind him instead, up the carpeted stairs towards his room. He needed a shower, and he needed company. "Mycroft functions nearly entirely in the digital realm, but it would be difficult to sever him from those resources. As far as I can tell, he always communicates through secure private channels. Fund transfers are much the same."

"Then perhaps we could create a security breach large enough to send him back home where his skills will be sorely missed. America has had its fair share of whistleblowing scandals. I would wager Her Majesty's Government wouldn't fare much better should we find a source on the inside. Your brother is a guard dog who has left his post." Jim threw the hat aside and shrugged out of his jacket and tshirt, then went to help Sherlock with the buttons of his. 

"It would have to be fairly severe to make him get physically recalled. Something he wouldn't have trained any underlings to handle and that couldn't be fixed over the internet or phone." Sherlock frowned and let Jim push his shirt off of his shoulders. The garment dropped to the floor and was forgotten. "It would have to involve someone very high up. The Prime Minister or one of the Royals. Even if it wasn't objectively dire and he could handle it from a distance, they'd tug on his leash and insist he be physically present."

Jim nodded slowly, reaching for the shower faucet to let the water heat before he caught the belt at Sherlock's trousers, undoing it before he slipped the trousers down Sherlock’s narrow hips. "Or all of the little people down below," Jim mused softly. "The loss of faith in those in power doesn't always have to be bought. How many times and just how far do you suppose your brother or someone like him has encroached on the civil liberties and privacy of the general public? All it would take is an offer of security to one bleeding heart with a conscience on the inside, and then we have our perfect leaker. The real question is, just how naughty has your brother been?" Jim smiled a secret smile when he let Sherlock's pants fall to the tile. 

"He's the embodiment of paranoia. He'll have tapped into as many eyes and ears as he possibly can, regardless of the legality." Sherlock cut off into a soft hiss when Jim's hands trailed over bruised skin. He reached down to help Jim out of the last of his clothing. The smaller man wasn't making it easy on him, teasing with fingers and mouth. "...why is tonight different? I've killed before." Never so many so directly and in one night, but Sherlock didn't see how that mattered.

"You were at my side." Jim drew the sliding door back and stepped into the water, beckoning Sherlock with a look. 

When Sherlock joined him, he was rewarded with Jim's hands and the warmth of the spray, both running down him in soothing motions. 

Jim had seen what made Sherlock's heart drop back there. 

Jim had watched John down on the street, seen that he had seen Sherlock, had seen them both, really. But all the while Sherlock had killed with him. Sherlock had stayed with him, literally side by side. 

Jim drew Sherlock close, stood up on his toes and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck until Sherlock had to bend so that Jim could stand comfortably. 

Jim pressed his cheek into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and after they stood like that for long minutes under the hot fall of water, Sherlock knew that Jim had closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear up any misunderstandings, this is not the end of the story, it's just the last chapter we've written. We're very sorry to stop in the middle like this, but we're also very grateful for every one of you who's read this far and enjoyed the story. Thank you very much. We're sorry we couldn't finish it for you.


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